


dig in your fingers

by kirkaut



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Body Worship, Canon Re-Write AU, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Porn with Feelings, minimal angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4326546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkaut/pseuds/kirkaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lack of a silver suppository has set Eggsy upon a certain path. The way that Eggsy looks, dripping wet and half naked, sets Harry on another.</p><p>(Or: Total Canon Re-Write, aka The One Where Harry's Libido Saves His Life)</p><p>Altered epilogue added August 2nd, 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starrla89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrla89/gifts).



> original prompt: "If you're still taking fic prompts: when they're doing the water test, Harry is there watching, too, and he is just so massively turned on by Eggsy's sheer resourcefulness, not to mention how fucking good he looks dripping wet and half naked. Leads to first kiss and/or shenanigans. ;)"
> 
> there's...there's a lot of porn in this fic just a heads up

It begins, much in the same way as the other important piece of Harry's life, with the flooded bed chambers of the startled Kingsman proposals. 

“I'm not sure why you need me here,” he complains to Merlin, nevertheless standing shoulder to shoulder with his friend, hands shoved into his water-resistant overcoat. Merlin grunts and continues tapping at his clipboard, pulling up the commands to release the sealed tiles on the floor and pump water into the room. “May I remind you I have a mission of my own to account for? Regarding the death of our friend?”

Merlin heaves a sigh and levels a glare at Harry out of the corner of his eye. “Come off it,” he scoffs, and flicks at the valve activation switch. The floor shimmers as the tiles shift out of place, the water rising quickly. “You couldn't stand James for more than twenty minutes at a time and you know it. You're just being a maudlin twat. As I recall, you said he was too cock-sure and flashy. _You_ , Harry Hart, criticising someone for being a show-off.”

“I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the dulcet sounds of panic,” Harry sniffs, watching through the two way mirror as Eggsy shoots awake, hand slapping to the wall and hitting the lights. Any panic that may be occurring is, admittedly, muffled, but he remembers the fear he'd felt when he'd taken this test for himself, and memory is a heady thing.

(Admittedly, his own experience with the flooding had been to wake up in a daze, pants wet and cold, and have a brief crisis about whether or not he'd soiled his own bed in a manner he'd rather thought he'd outgrown since infancy. Then he'd registered the water lapping at his chest and the world had come into alarming focus.)

Chester and Percival's recruits gesture wildly over towards the shower area, clearly on the same page with their survival techniques. U-bend snorkels, of course. The easiest solution. Still, Harry can't help but smile when Eggsy looks around, bewildered, and gestures towards the door while his companions swim in the opposite direction.

“Interesting,” Merlin mutters, making a note of it on his clipboard. “Your boy is the only one to attempt to find an exit. Everyone else is focused on saving their own hide.”

The water reaches the top of the chamber, and Eggsy's pulling futilely at the door. Harry feels a flash of disappointment when he swims past Amelia— _twice—_ and does nothing to help her despite her flailing struggles. She has a discreet oxygen line feeding her air into her nose, but Eggsy doesn't know that, and still he swims by. _Damn._

Eggsy pauses in the middle of the room, taking a moment to tread water and survey his surroundings. Harry, for his part, takes a moment to admire the boy's lung capacity and his ability to go a terribly long time without taking a breath. He feels his brows quirk with interest.

“Don't even think about it,” Merlin says without looking at him, gaze alternating between his tablet and the view on the other side of the mirror.

“Too late,” Harry admits, unabashed, and proceeds to openly ogle the tight cord of Eggsy's muscles as he pushes forward towards the glass. It makes him feel like a dirty old lech, in some distant recess of his mind where he's buried all his shame, but mostly it just makes his libido awaken when Eggsy plants his feet on the wall beneath the mirror, giving Harry a perfect view of the way water presses his pyjama pants into the contours of his legs. His abdomen and chest are well defined and his shoulders strong, despite their slimness. His biceps bulge and his forearms tense when he drives his fist forward, into the glass.

“Clever lad,” Merlin praises, turning his mouth down in consideration. He makes another note and steps to the side.

Harry allows himself a moment of indulgence, eyes running over all the areas in Eggsy's body where his compact power is most visible, until the glass begins to splinter beneath the boy's knuckles and Harry's forced back to Merlin's side in the corner, lest he want to be swept away by the release of pressure.

The glass shatters, pouring hundreds of litres of water into the room along with a haggard, soaked group of twenty-somethings. They all slowly sit up, coughing and spitting and wiping water from their eyes and noses, and eye Merlin and Harry with no small amount of distrust.

“Well,” Merlin says, folding his arms over his clipboard and staring them down. “That was certainly...eventful.” He nods to Percival and Chester's candidates. “Roxy, Charlie, good thinking with the shower heads. If you can get a hollow tube around the U-bend of a toilet, you have an unlimited air supply. Simple enough, but vital to learn.”

“Eggsy,” Harry chimes in, despite his promise to keep silent. He doesn't have to look at Merlin to know the other man is rolling his eyes toward the ceiling and praying for the strength not to kick Harry in the ankles. “Bloody well done, spotting that was a two way mirror.”

“Yeah, well,” Charlie snots, wiping at his face and smirking. “He's probably seen enough of them.”

Harry bristles. He immediately and intensely dislikes the little berk; he's already moulded himself in Chester's image, and it isn't a pretty picture. Snobbery is a dying aesthetic, Harry knows, but there's something more primal and protective that flares up when he sees the way Eggsy's jaw clenches at Charlie's comment, the way his eyes cut away with shame.

Merlin inhales and opens his mouth to speak, but Harry cuts him off. This time he can feel the full brunt of the other man's glare burning a hole into the side of his face, but he's long since become used to such acidic stares. “Drunk and disorderly,” Harry snaps, hitting the consonants with a click. “Seventeenth July, Twenty-Ten.” He lifts his eyebrows and Charlie flushes angrily, face twisting into an embarrassed sneer. “And that's not the last of it.”

“Galahad,” Merlin says, too loud and staring at Harry as if he could light him on fire with pure will alone. “Are you quite finished?”

Harry continues to stare down Charlie, making sure his eyes hold a manic glint. He sees Eggsy suppress a snicker over the little shit's shoulder, and when he flicks his eyes up to meet the gaze of his own proposal, Eggsy stares back, amused and surprised.

Harry most definitely does not watch the bead of water that trails down from his temple, curving over the sharp line of his jaw and down his neck, before pooling in the divot of his collarbone. He absolutely does not entertain thoughts of following that same path with his tongue, because such a thing would be wildly inappropriate to think about whilst standing in a room full of people to whom he acts as a superior.

“Galahad,” Merlin hisses. Harry blinks once, twice, and tears himself away from Eggsy and the luscious temptation of his damp skin.

“Oh, by all means,” he says, pulling a hand out of his coat pocket and sweeping it forward. “Do continue.”

Merlin grumbles a series of invectives underneath his breath for a moment, before gathering his wits and facing the recruits. “As far as I'm concerned, every single one of you has failed.”

The faces before them all go indignant...except for Eggsy. Eggsy's smile dims away and he hangs his head with resignation, as if he knew failure was his fate. It's the heavy slump of a person who's been told they're a perpetual disappointment, no doubt a sentiment driven into his brain by that _vile_ step-father of his. Regardless of its origins, Harry finds that it's a look he doesn't like pulling down the set of Eggsy's shoulders, and resolves to do something about it.

After, of course, they've convinced a group of young adults that they're responsible for the neglectful death of one of their peers.

“You've forgotten the single most important aspect of being a Kingsman agent,” Harry informs them mildly, but allows a touch of steel to undercut the words. The group sprawled across the wet floor shifts, uncomfortable. “Would you care to tell them what that is, Merlin?”

“Teamwork,” Merlin says firmly, and jabs his pen in the direction of the broken window. Amelia's in position, perfectly draped over the bench that separates the toilets from the beds, body angled with just the right amount of drama that ensures the image is going to strike a chord.

The lot of them shuffle to their feet, wary and aching, and cross to the shattered frame of the mirror. “So much for classic army technique,” Harry hears Eggsy mutter to Roxy. From this angle, Harry has the perfect view of his obliques, well-defined and toned and looking so lovely, dripping wet and slick.

Merlin discreetly pokes him in the side with his pen. _Hard._ “You'll be assigned to temporary quarters while we get the place dried out and remove the body,” he instructs, voice smooth. He digs his pen harder into Harry's side. “If you'll follow me, I'll take you to your bunks for the night, where you'll place your wet clothing into the laundry hamper and find yourselves dry pyjamas.”

The pressure of the fountain pen leaves his ribcage and Harry exhales slowly through his nose, narrowing his eyes just a touch in Merlin's direction.

Merlin glares back. ' _You fucking wouldn't dare_ ,' his eyes threaten, flicking briefly between Harry and Eggsy.

Harry's eyes narrow a hair further, conveying the message of _'the hell I wouldn't,'_ loud and clear.

Merlin lets out a low growl, a bitten out oath, and then he's herding the proposals through the door with a sharp, “Let's get a move on, then!”

“Eggsy,” Harry calls, grabbing the young man's attention. He approaches Harry slowly, bare feet slipping on the wet tiled floor, but looks up at him with that same attentive stare, jaw cocked off to the side. Harry takes a risk and brushes his fingers against the back of Eggsy's arm, slipping against the skin just above his elbow. His jaw clicks straight in surprise. “Walk with me, will you?”

“Sure thing, bruv,” Eggsy stutters, and falls into line with Harry as they exit the small room. They're a number of paces behind the larger group, and if Harry keeps his hand curled around Eggsy's elbow, well, it's simply to keep the lad from slipping on the small pools of water his fellow recruits have left behind.

That, and so that Harry may enjoy the feel of muscles shifting, tensing beneath his fingers every time Eggsy's wet pyjama pants catch beneath his heels and send him sliding forward. He leans into Harry's grasp, drifting further towards his body, and the sway of him is intoxicating. They walk along the corridor, a dozen or so strides behind Merlin and the other candidates and a few of them shoot furtive, curious glances at Eggsy and Harry over their shoulder. Merlin leads them around a corner, and when the last soggy pair of pyjamas disappears from sight, Harry very carefully veers to the left.

Eggsy stumbles over his own feet and mutters a swear under his breath when Harry pulls him along. “Am I in trouble or summat?” he asks, and when Harry pauses in front of one of the smaller, more private rooms and turns around to face him, there's a worried furrow creasing the skin between his brows.

A single bead of water trickles down from his hairline, curving around the outside of one eye and over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. Harry's mouth goes dry.

“I suppose,” he says, and pushes the door open, ushering Eggsy inside, “that depends on your idea of 'trouble'.”

Eggsy steps past him and into the room with an apprehensive look back at Harry, who's slipping off his glasses and slipping them into his pocket. He takes an assessing glance around, taking in the single sized bed and the small bureau that houses a first aid kit and fresh linens. “When it comes to you?” he says, eyes cutting to Harry before the rest of his head follows. His eyes trace a long path up and down the line of Harry's body. “I got no fucking clue, bruv.”

Harry smirks and begins unbuttoning his overcoat, noting the way that Eggsy inhales through his nose, eyes fixed on Harry's fingers. He slips the coat from his shoulders and drapes it carefully over the top of the bureau, then makes a show of fixing his cuff links as he takes slow, methodical steps into Eggsy's personal space.

When they're barely more than twenty centimetres apart, Harry drops the act and meets the mossy green of Eggsy's eyes dead on. “Eggsy,” he says carefully, deliberately. His fingers twist the buttons of his suit jacket from their holes. “I am going to do something quite...rash. And I want you to promise to stop me if it's unwelcome.”

Eggsy's eyes are stuck on the movements of his hands when he croaks out, “What?”

“Promise me,” Harry says firmly, and undoes the last button. His hands, now free, come up to Eggsy's face. One spreads across the hinge of his jaw, thumbing at the sensitive space beneath his ear, and the first two fingers on the other hand curl together beneath Eggsy's chin to tilt his face upwards, dragging his gaze back to Harry's.

“Yeah, alright,” Eggsy breathes, eyes darting around Harry's face. A fine tremble shivers through his body, and Harry feels the movement run beneath his hands.

“Excellent,” he murmurs, and then pushes his mouth against Eggsy's.

The boy opens up to him immediately. Enthusiastically. His hands, smaller than Harry's own but strong enough to punch through glass, rise up and clutch at his lapels, at the back of his neck. They fist into his hair and pull Harry's mouth harder into his own. He senses the way the young man raises up onto his tip-toes to accommodate their height difference, and something in Harry melts.

His spine goes nearly liquid, and he drops the hand beneath Eggsy's chin to wind his arm around his naked waist and haul him in tightly. He digs his thumb into the spot by Eggsy's ear a bit harder, and for his effort he gets the reward of the mouth beneath his opening with a small gasp. His tongue dips in, eager, and licks against Eggsy's own.

Eggsy makes a desperate, keening sound that's lost to the space where their faces press together. His hips push in, lining up with Harry's own, and the still sopping wet fabric of his pyjama pants is an unwelcome shock. Harry inhales sharply through his nose and tilts his hips away. Eggsy's mouth slips from his own, a faint sounding apology drifting up to Harry's ears.

“No need to be sorry,” Harry admonishes, and can't resist pressing a laving kiss to his upper lip. He bites at the jut of Eggsy's pouting bottom lip when he pulls away, and there's that beautiful, needy sound again. “Though I think that perhaps the two of us are wearing too many layers of clothing.”

“Fuck yeah,” Eggsy breathes, pulls at the knot of Harry's tie and has it slipping form beneath his collar before the words are even finished. He leans up and scrapes his teeth along Harry's lip, smashing their noses together and breathing hard before giving Harry a long, wet kiss, one hand fisted in his collar and the other twined into his hair.

Harry isn't wearing a waistcoat today, which he's eternally grateful for once Eggsy begins deftly slipping apart the buttons of his dress shirt. Less fastenings to deal with, after all, and the press of Eggsy's hands against his collarbone comes quickly. His fingers trail lightly over the thin skin of Harry's neck before he smooths his palms across his shoulders, shoving the open dress shirt, the gun holster, and Harry's suit jacket off in one go. He keeps his fingers circled loosely around Harry's wrists.

Eggsy breaks their kiss when the sound of fabric and a (mercifully unloaded) gun hitting the floor reaches their ears, and pulls back enough that he can run his eyes over Harry's torso.

“Jesus,” he breathes, and Harry can't help the way his chest puffs up in response. Over two and a half decades of service to Queen and country has left him with his fair share of scars, true, but it's also left him lithe and toned even as he edges into leaving his forties behind forever. He's by no means any sort of spectacular specimen, but the way Eggsy's eyes drink him in and go hooded, molten, is certainly gratifying. “Fuck, of course you're fucking fit.” He tightens his grip and pulls Harry's hands up to his mouth, pressing furtive kisses to the backs of them. His eyes are bright and so beautifully green, peering up at Harry from over his knuckles, lashes thick and smudging.

“You tart,” Harry chides, but it's ruined by the mild affection in his tone and the smile pulling at his lips.

Eggsy grins at him and sucks Harry's index finger into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks with the suction. He pulls all the way up to the tip, tongue laving, and then pushes his mouth back down with a twist of his neck and a gentle scrape of teeth.

“I misspoke, earlier,” Harry manages, sounding strangled through the sheer, blinding arousal crowding up inside every inch of his body. “You _are_ in trouble.”

He regretfully pulls his finger from Eggsy's mouth, eyes fluttering at the faint 'pop' as the boy lets him go. Breaking the hold on his arms is easily done, freeing up his hands to pull at the button fly of his trousers. Eggsy's hands find their way back to his shoulders, slipping over lightly tanned skin and dragging over the fur of Harry's chest hair. His nails scrape over Harry's nipples, gentle, and any progress with the state of his swiftly tenting trousers is halted.

“Eggsy,” he grits out, abandoning his task in order to curve his fingers tight over the sharp jut of his hipbones. He pulls him in those spare few centimetres, shoving their groins together much in the same way he'd shied away from earlier. Wet pyjama pants be damned, he thinks furiously, and thrusts into the hard line of Eggsy's cock.

The hands teasing at his pectorals scramble for purchase against Harry's flank, digging in for dear life as the younger man's head tilts back in a wanton, throaty moan. Harry thrusts again, and his head falls back the other way, forehead nudging into Harry's collarbone.

He allows them a few more rocking, grinding thrusts before forcibly pulling their bodies apart. Eggsy's mouth opens in protest, face flushed and tilting up, and Harry comes at him, all teeth and tongue. He delves into Eggsy's mouth, one hand drifting from his hip to cup at the back of his neck, and between long pulls at his lips, Harry finds the breath to say, “Remove your pants, for fuck's sake.”

Eggsy lets out a low growling moan, which Harry feels against the back of his teeth, and then separates long enough to shove the wet material down his thighs and into a soggy, sad lump on the floor. He straightens up, shoulders back, naked as the day.

His cock is a lovely thing, Harry notes with no small amount of pleasure, and runs the back of his fingers against the satiny stretch of skin. All flushed and turgid, rosy head peeking out from beneath the sheath of foreskin. He isn't quite as long as Harry, though—not to sound horribly egotistical—that isn't particularly hard to do, but Eggsy is deliciously thick, flaring a hair wider at the base and curving gently to the left. He's going to feel so lovely one day, Harry muses, imagining the stretch and burn such a cock would give his arse.

All in good time, he thinks, and Harry lets his finger catch on the extra skin and pull down, exposing the head further. He watches hungrily as a drop of pre-come gathers and beads away.

Eggsy's hips stutter forward with a ragged gasp, and between one hitching breath and the next, Harry finds his own trousers and pants shoved unceremoniously to his ankles, Eggsy's hands a gentle pressure on his thighs. “If you'll spare me the indignity of tripping over my own pants,” Harry says, cocking an eyebrow at the delectable sight below him—Eggsy, stark naked, kneeling before him and nosing at the crease of his thigh, good _Christ—_ and somehow keeping his cool. “I would like to remove my shoes so that you and I can move ourselves to the bed.”

Eggsy hums, nose still running a gentle line in the space where Harry's hip meets thigh, and curls his hands over the sensitive hollows behind his knees, running down his calves and hooking fingers into the hems of his socks and dragging down until he's providing a firm pressure against the backs of Harry's Oxfords. His feet tug free easily, and he sets them down, bare, against the cool tile of the floor. Eggsy's cheeks nuzzles into the fine hairs above Harry's femoral artery, breath skimming over his cock.

“Fuck,” Harry bites out when he leans closer and licks a broad, wet stripe up the line of him, mouth closing delicately over the head. He _feels_ Eggsy's smirk, the way his lips twist in amusement around his prick, and drops a hand to his still damp hair. Eggsy takes this as his cue to swallow Harry all the way down until his jaw is hinged open wide and his nose is pressed firmly into the coarse thatch of pubic hair in Harry's groin. “ _Shit_ , you bloody— _demon._ ”

Eggsy swallows around him, eyes glassy but staring up at Harry, unabashed, and the world goes alarmingly white for a moment. He pulls off slowly, with a maddening drag of his tongue along the underside. He carefully pulls down his foreskin, and spends an agonizing few moments suckling at the exposed, weeping head until Harry's knees tremble. Just the once, really, but they tremble all the same, so he fists his hand into Eggsy's hair and pulls him off.

This proves to be a mistake, because no sooner is the boy's mouth free than he's spouting off utter filth, voice rasping from the pressure of Harry's cock down his throat. “Been thinking about this since the pub,” he admits shamelessly, mouth glistening and pink. His own erection, straining upwards from between dark blond curls, is very nearly painful for Harry to look at, but Eggsy doesn't touch himself in favour of touching Harry instead. His hands smooth back to the space where Harry's buttocks meet thigh, thumbs sweeping into the slightly sweaty creases. “When you took down all of Dean's goons, fuck, man, I thought I was gonna go off then and there.” He hunkers down further, letting the backs of his thighs touch his calves, and presses a kiss to the inside of Harry's knee.

It's not a place on his body by which he'd ever imagined being horribly, irrevocably filled with lust, but Eggsy has proven himself to be a study in surprises.

“Wanted to crawl under the table,” he murmurs in between sucking kisses that head towards Harry's cock again. “Open up them fucking trousers, get my mouth on you, yeah, suck you off. 'S fucking hottest thing 've ever seen, bruv.” He bites and laves a dark mark into the spot just below Harry's hipbone, holding his hips to his mouth with those strong, able hands. “Never had no one do nothin' like that for me,” he says, low, like an admission he just barely means to say aloud.

Harry's fingers clench in his hair and pull, dragging Eggsy up from the floor. As appealing as the sight had been, he wants Eggsy closer to his level, wants his mouth near so that Harry can kiss him deep and taste himself on the back of his tongue. So he does just that, with great enthusiasm. He nudges his thumbs into the spaces beneath Eggsy's ears, and the younger man shudders, eyes rolling up and then shut. He's needy, keening, and so fucking beautiful Harry goes a bit breathless.

“You are remarkable,” he tells him, panting and leaning their foreheads together. Eggsy lets out a small whimper and shivers at the praise.

A light goes off in Harry's head as an idea sparks.

“Such a good lad,” he murmurs, and places careful kisses upon Eggsy's eyelids.

Eggsy's breath stutters, and Harry's gut churns with a brand new excitement.

“I admit I had my doubts,” he tells him, and kisses away the frowning wrinkle that appears between his brows. “But you've so far proven them inert. So unflinchingly loyal to a man you'd just met, even when a knife was held to your neck. I can't tell you how pleased I was.” He mouths at the underside of Eggsy's chin, knees bent and one slipping between the hot gap of Eggsy's thighs. He nudges the both of them back, heading towards the modestly sized bed. “And tonight's test, despite the admittedly great misfortune of your fellow candidate,” Eggsy sighs at that, but it isn't a happy one. It's subdued, weighted down with guilt at the thought of Amelia's body, and Harry wants none of it. He knows that Amelia's probably in medical, making sure there's no water in her lungs and that her breathing is regulated, and that Eggsy's going to find out all of this in due time.

Now, however, he wants the boy naked and shivering beneath him.

“You performed so well,” Harry praises lowly, letting his voice rumble out into a purr. Eggsy's knees hit the mattress and Harry's careful when he lays him down and blankets his body with his own. “Your first priority, your first instinct, was finding an exit so that everyone could be removed from immediate danger.” He pauses to line up their hips, sliding their cocks together in a firm, hot glide. Eggsy arches wonderfully below him, the defined muscles of his stomach straining and brushing against Harry's own. “And despite what Charlie may have to say about your various run-ins with the police, you are the only one to have recognized a viable means of escape.”

He allows himself to lay fully on top of Eggsy, sliding his arms beneath his back and holding them more closely together. The space between them where skin touches skin is already deliciously too-warm, growing slick with sweat and the steady, pulsing drip of pre-come.

“You were so lovely,” he grunts, thrusting into the splayed open crux of Eggsy's legs, teeth pulling at the lobe of his ear. “So resourceful and strong. I did so enjoy watching you swim, seeing the way your pants clung tight.” He smooths a hand down the strong muscles of Eggsy's back, curving over his oblique and trailing down his abs. “Your body is gorgeous, darling.”

“Fuck!” Eggsy chokes, body curling up so he can bury his face into Harry's neck when his long, graceful fingers wrap their way around his cock and stroke. “Oh, shit, _Harry_.”

“So lovely, my boy,” Harry repeats, twisting his hand on the upstroke and running his palm over the head. “How you broke through the glass in so few punches, fighting against the water. You held your breath for so _long_ , I feared I may ruin my pants in front of Merlin.”

“'ve got,” Eggsy bites out, the words hard against the corded muscle of Harry's shoulder, “good lung control.”

It's Harry's turn to shudder now. “That is dangerous information,” he rasps, and bears down on Eggsy with his hips and with his mouth. He kisses furtive and deep, licking into Eggsy's mouth and drawing his own tongue out, until Eggsy chases him back and kisses in, just as passionate, swiping at the roof of Harry's mouth.

“Fuck me,” he says, ripping his mouth away to bite a line across Harry's jaw. Initially, he believes it to be just another oath, but when Eggsy pulls back and opens his legs wider, intent, he understands. “ _Fuck_ me,” he urges again, and rolls his hips up.

“Fuck,” Harry swears. “Oh, darling, you've no idea how desperately I want to.”

“Then shut the fuck up and _do it_ ,” Eggsy grunts, reaching back to fist at the pillow beneath his head, body still writhing and riding the pressure provided by Harry's thigh.

“I would,” Harry tells him, ragged and wanting. His cock twitches at the thought, at the mere imagining of opening Eggsy up around his fingers, hot and tight and slick, and sliding in, rutting the boy until he's a trembling, needy thing and Harry can come inside him, messy and deep. “But we're rather lacking in supplies, my dear.”

Eggsy's head falls back with a groan, and the motion of his body calms into helpless little twitches, still a rolling wave of muscle against Harry's own. The press of his hipbones is sharp. “I thought a gentleman was always s'posed to be prepared,” he grouses, eyes irritated but still hooded with arousal.

“You're thinking of the Scouts,” Harry corrects him, feeling his mouth twitch. “And while it doesn't hurt to be prepared for any and all situations, it doesn't mean that we can't...” In one swift motion, he heaves his body off of Eggsy and flips him over, leaving the taught strength of his back exposed to Harry's hungry gaze. He presses down again, chest nudging into Eggsy's shoulder blades, and gives an easy thrust against his backside. Any tension in Eggsy's body at the unexpected change in position melts away. “...improvise,” Harry finishes.

“Jeeesus,” Eggsy slurs, humping down into the mattress and back against the glide of Harry's cock. Harry allows it, the soft and smooth skin of Eggsy's arse a soothing balm on the angry flush of his erection, but after a few furtive, desperate moments of this, he somehow brings himself to a bracing crouch over Eggsy's body.

He whines at the loss of contact, but Harry has other plans.

“Put your thighs together,” he murmurs, placing a hand against Eggsy's ribs. His fingers glide and ripple over them, the bones easily found beneath his touch. He spares a moment to frown, concerned at the protrusion of them, before Eggsy's lifting up his bum and doing as he's been asked. “Perfect,” he says, and strokes himself lightly, his other hand palming at Eggsy's bum. His thumb pries apart his cheeks as best it can, revealing the dusky pink clench of his arsehole. Eggsy moans into the pillow, shoulders dropping down when Harry brushes over it lightly.

“Next time,” he promises vehemently, and slips his cock between the press of Eggsy's thighs. “Now clench together, darling, make it nice and tight for me.”

“Swear down,” Eggsy grits, legs trembling as he pushes his inner thighs together the best he can and Harry's cock bumps against his bollocks. “You better be comin' inside me next time, yeah? Fuck my arse til I can't even stand no more, Harry, til I'm walkin' funny the next day. Want your cock,” he moans, fisting his hands into the linens and driving back into Harry's next thrust. The friction is uncomfortable, at first, but sweat and pre-come soon ease the way and it isn't long before Harry is able to set a brutal pace.

He hauls Eggsy up to his knees, elbows still perched on the mattress, and reaches around to fist at his cock. On every few downward strokes, he bumps the underside of his hand with the head of his own prick, and it's driving him mental.

“Harry,” Eggsy whispers, face turned to the side. He reaches up and hooks a hand behind Harry's neck, using the push of his other hand against the mattress to haul himself up until they're pressed, back to chest, Harry still shoving between the closed crux of Eggsy's thighs. “Harry,” he murmurs again, and catches his mouth in a kiss.

Harry spreads the entire expanse of his hand against Eggsy's cheek and jaw, feels his pulse thrumming hard and fast beneath where his fingertips press into his neck, and gentles the kiss into something soft. It's a contrast to the rough, desperate motion of their hips, but there's something rising up in Harry's chest that isn't just the need to come. He very genuinely _likes_ Eggsy, he realises as he sucks the lad's lower lip into his mouth and tongues at it. He likes his loyalty, his fire, his innate need to _protect_. He likes the way that Eggsy urged him out of the pub, willing to face a mob of angry brutes alone if it meant sparing a man he'd only just met. He likes the spark of wit and dry humour Eggsy had exhibited during their time on the bullet train between the shop and HQ, and the strong lines of his body as he threw all of his force into finding an escape through a two way mirror.

He _likes_ Eggsy, Harry realises, and comes violently with a strangled shout of the name on his lips. It's on a downward stroke, so he cups his hand beneath himself and catches the thick, roping dribbles of come while he shudders and twitches into the hold of Eggsy's body. He's still coming, albeit in smaller, less viscous bursts, when he uses the mess in his hand to slick up the pulls he takes on Eggsy's cock. His come glistens, wet and gleaming, on the length of him.

“Fuck, that's hot,” Eggsy grunts, nosing into Harry's jawline. Harry slips from between his legs, still drooling from the tip of his erection and smearing it down the backs of his thighs, but Eggsy pays the mess no mind. He thrusts into the sloppy, firm grip that Harry has on him, and it only takes half a dozen or so undulations of his hips before his biting at the hinge of Harry's jaw and coming, making a wet disaster of Harry's hands and his own thighs and the sheets below them.

When the last tremors have left his body, he slumps forward into the looping hold Harry has around his waist. Harry very carefully diverts the both of them away from the wet spot, which forces them to spoon on the section of the bed that they haven't very thoroughly ruined. Housekeeping is going to be _raving_ , Harry thinks bemusedly, and runs a hand down Eggsy's side. His other arm, the one with the filthy come-streaked hand, is trapped beneath him, curled into a loose fist by Eggsy's elbow. When the boy catches his breath, he twines the fingers on both hands around Harry's wrist and pulls his palm to his mouth for a kiss.

“That's horrible,” Harry informs him, tone mild even as his cock makes a valiant effort to firm up again. Eggsy hums in agreement, but bathes Harry's fingers and hands with his tongue until he's mostly clean, if still a bit sticky. His libido is bemoaning his age by the end of it.

“So what's this mean, then?” Eggsy asks after five minutes of being pressed together in silence, Harry skimming kisses against the gorgeous smattering of freckles and beauty marks across his shoulder. It's taken him three tries to get the words out, Harry hearing the quiet click of his tongue in his mouth each time they faltered in his mouth.

“It means,” Harry informs, propping his head up onto his mostly clean hand and staring down into Eggsy's upturned face. He runs his thumb along the pronounced arch of one cheekbone, across the plush of his bottom lip, and uses it to tilt his chin up so that Harry can catch his mouth in a whisper-soft kiss. “That we are two consenting adults, engaging in a sexual relationship despite an admittedly skewed working power dynamic, and damn the consequences.”

“Really?” Eggsy asks him sceptically, even as he leans up for another gentle press of mouths. “That simple, huh? You ain't gonna be in trouble or nothin'?”

“Oh, I suspect I'll be in a great deal of trouble,” Harry contradicts, gazing thoughtfully up towards the ceiling. His thumb strokes over the prominence of Eggsy's collarbone. “But I've known Merlin for too many years for him to stay angry for long. He tends to run hot but burn quickly, that one. And it's been years since I gave a damn what Arthur thinks of me, the curmudgeonly old cunt.” Eggsy lets out a shocked laugh, and the way his eyes crinkle when he does so is beguiling, so Harry nuzzles into them with the tip of his nose. “Now, not to be terribly rude, but you _are_ required to spend each night in the recruitment dormitory.”

Eggsy lets out a little groan and buries his face into the pillow, and clutches at the hand attached to the arm Harry's had draped around his waist for some time. “Yeah, alright,” he grumbles, and carefully extricates himself from Harry's grip and goes to sit on the side of the bed. He rolls his head across his shoulders, and when he turns to look back at Harry, the bloom of love bites up his neck is stark and a tad embarrassing, but something possessive rears its head in Harry's chest all the same. Eggsy reaches out and pokes at a spot on Harry's chest, and then his own neck in a spot just above where his shirt collars fall. “You sure you won't be in trouble, guv?” he asks, “Cos I've left you a right mess.”

“Well then,” Harry says, and pulls himself upright so that he can press his fingers into the marks he's left behind on Eggsy's pale skin. “That makes us even.”

Eggsy grins at him and shakes his head. “I am gonna get so much shit for this,” he declares as he stands and moves to begin rummaging through the bureau. “Roxy seems alright, but the rest of them...”

Harry heaves himself out of bed and crosses to take Eggsy in his arms, teeth scraping over the already bruised-up side of his neck. Eggsy inhales sharply and clutches more firmly at the clean, dry Kingsman issued pyjamas he's scavenged from the chest of drawers. “Pay them no mind,” Harry says firmly into the shell of Eggsy's ear. “And believe me when I say that you are more Kingsman material than any of them.”

Eggsy turns in his arms, pyjamas crushed between them, and leans up and in for one more thorough, lavish kiss. “Damn the consequences, aye?” he mutters, then steps away to slip on his pants and shirt. Harry watches the skin disappear with a feeling akin to sadness, already missing the warmth of it beneath his hands.

“Precisely, darling,” Harry says, and slips his own silk briefs up his legs with as much grace as he can manage. A blush heats the tips of Eggsy's ears at the endearment, a pleased smile pulling at his lips and creating those lovely crinkles by his eyes.

 _Damn the consequences, indeed,_ Harry resolves, and swoops in for one last kiss.

 

ooo

 

Chester King regards him over a full English breakfast with barely concealed anger and no small amount of disgust. “Am I to understand,” he says, voice tremulous with irritation, “that you and your proposal disappeared together, _privately_ , for over an hour and a half, only to re-emerge smelling of...indecent activities and covered in _love bites?_ ”

“Good news travels fast, I see,” Harry muses, and takes a bite of his wheat toast. It leaves crumbs clinging to his tie, and he brushes them away with a frown.

“This is completely inappropriate!” Chester hisses, clutching at his cutlery like he yearns to jam a spoon into Harry's jugular.

“I don't see how.” Harry cuts away a portion of his sausage and spears it together with a piece of fried egg. “Considering that Eggsy is, in fact, twenty-four years old and more than able to offer his full and...” he pauses, considering which word will most make Chester's face screw up into an unpleasant caricature, “...enthusiastic consent.”

Chester flushes, infuriated. _Mission accomplished._

“Not to mention that there are, in fact, no fraternization rules to speak of, which is admittedly rather short-sighted of the organization, truth be told,” Harry says with no small amount of glee, thoroughly enjoying the way Chester is getting increasingly apoplectic. “I'm fairly certain this has more to do with his social class than anything. Would you rather I were bumming Charlie?”

Chester slams his hand down on the table, causing their fine china and silverware to rattle. Harry doesn't so much as blink or flinch, and instead takes a forkful of beans and scoops it onto his toast, teeth crunching into the crisp bread as he meets his boss' steely gaze head on. A step too far, perhaps, Harry considers, since the older man's recruit _is_ his oldest and dearest friend's grandson.

If the lot of them weren't classist, racist, misogynistic twats, Harry would maybe feel worse.

Maybe.

Probably not.

“You,” Chester seethes, wizened old hands paling at the knuckles from how tightly he's gripping his silverware. “Are henceforth _removed_ from the investigation into Lancelot's death.”

Harry pauses, mug of tea halfway to his mouth. He sets it back down on the table with a hard 'clank.' “Don't be absurd,” he requests, eyes flicking over Chester with wariness. Indignation is a heady thing, he finds, and squares his shoulders. “I'm the only agent in-house, and I'm going to pay a visit to Professor Arnold this morning.”

“Bors arrived last night while you were busy _fraternizing_ ,” Chester informs him acidly, stabbing at his own fried egg and sending yolk everywhere across his plate. “I'm turning over the mission to his equally capable hands.”

“You're being petty,” Harry says, wiping at his mouth with his cloth napkin, “and I have lost my appetite. Good day, Arthur.” He stands, chair scraping noisily against the hard wood flooring, and takes his leave amidst the indignant huffing and puffing coming from the head of the table. He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and strides from the room, down the hall and down the stairs, giving a polite nod of greeting to Leodegrance before pushing open the door to fitting room one. He's practically vibrating with irritation by the time the elevator settles on the ground floor, the bullet train blessedly empty.

“Bloody bastard,” he curses as the door slides shut and the train begins moving. Truth be told, it's just as Merlin had accused him the night before: he hadn't been terribly invested in James' death beyond mourning the loss of an excellent agent. For all his pomp and excessive flair, James had made an excellent Lancelot, successfully executing hundreds of missions and thwarting (or carrying out) numerous assassinations. Under any other circumstance, Harry thinks he may have actually been fond of James, but there's a larger part of him—the part that had grown close to the loyal, spirited man who'd become a father at the young age of nineteen and was trying to do right by his son and wife and then thrown himself onto a grenade to spare three lives—that was bitter and resentful.

By the time he reaches HQ, he's calmed considerably, at ease with the fact that Chester has proven himself, yet again, to be a bastard. Nothing he hadn't known already, after all. He smooths down his jacket as he stands and exits, nodding to Minerva as she swivels from side to side in her chair in front of the security monitors. “Desk duty today, then?” he implores as he passes. She wiggles her fingers in a small wave, then points her pen at one of the screens.

“Merlin's on puppy duty,” she says, Irish brogue rolling. She smirks over the lenses of her horn-rimmed glasses. “And they're picking out their dogs th'day.”

“You are a veritable fountain of wit,” Harry says drily, smiling all the same, and pushes through the door as she sticks her tongue out at him. He makes his way through the halls and out onto the grounds, content to stroll the paths and breathe in the grey, damp, English air. A bit of a walk is just what he needs, and if he happens to run into Eggsy on his stroll, well. Happy coincidences all around.

As a matter of fact, he does indeed encounter Eggsy on one of the numerous running trails, looking resigned and slowly shuffling alongside a tiny, trembling puppy.

“Good Lord,” Harry says, and Eggsy starts, not having noticed his presence. His smile comes easily enough after the flinch, and he picks up the pup one handed and jogs over to where Harry is standing by a small thicket of trees. “And who is this fine canine specimen you've chosen for yourself?” He pinches one small, triangular ear between his thumb and index finger and rubs at the silky fur.

Eggsy groans and stifles it into the quivering pug's head. “This is JB.” At Harry's raised eyebrow, he elaborates. “Jack Bauer, innit? I thought he were a bulldog, to be honest.”

“You know nothing about dogs, do you?” Harry asks, bemused and terribly endeared by the sheepish eyeroll Eggsy gives him. He pulls the puppy from his arms and accepts the wet, furtive licks at his chin and mouth. “Well, you are a friendly little man, aren't you, Mr. Bauer?” he coos, unable to resist the lure of an affectionate, tiny dog. JB lets loose a string of plaintive whimpers, small paws pressing into his tie and snug face burrowing into Harry's warmth. Eggsy leans against a tree, arms crossed over the chest of his tartan boiler suit, and smiles.

It's a temptation that Harry has no hope of resisting. He crowds Eggsy further against the tree and feels the last remaining tension leave his shoulders when their mouths meet, open and soft. JB snuffles up between them, licking at their noses, and they each withdraw with a huffing laugh. “I see I've a rival for your affections,” Harry teases, passing the pup back into Eggsy's careful arms.

Eggsy beams down into the silky fur of JB's skull, looking up at Harry through those dark and lovely lashes. “So you really meant it, bruv?” he asks, reaching up to pull at Harry's lapel. “About you'n'me. Y'ain't changed your mind?”

Harry just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Darling, if there were ever any hope of letting you go,” he tells him, tone brooking no room for an argument, “I'm afraid it disappeared the minute you let me come between your thighs.”

“Jesus, Harry,” Eggsy breathes, going wonderfully rouge at the tops of his cheeks and around his ears. He takes a quick glance around to make sure that they're alone, presumably, and sets JB down on the still dew-wet grass so that he can reach up with both hands and haul Harry in for another searing kiss.

They part, unfortunately, not long after; the risk of one of Eggsy's fellow proposals wandering upon them is too great, and Harry has probably pushed enough of Chester's buttons for one day that he doesn't particularly feel up to pressing his luck even further. There is one pleasant side effect to his being booted off of the investigation into James' death, however. “My schedule has rather unexpectedly cleared,” he informs Eggsy on a murmur, smoothing the younger man's short hair away from his face. “I'm afraid you'll have to endure my presence with an increasing frequency, since I think Merlin could use some assistance in training you and your fellow candidates.”

“Shame,” Eggsy says on a sigh, a teasing smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Guess I'll just have to get used to bein' kissed by fit blokes, then.”

“Just the one,” Harry corrects, feeling that possessive beast stirring in his chest again. He leans in for a final kiss, luxuriating in the way Eggsy drifts into him, eyelashes fluttering. “Now, off with you, before I do something terribly indecent like fellate you against this tree.”

“How,” Eggsy asks, head thumping back against the bark. “What the fuck, Harry, _how_ is that supposed to make me wanna walk away?”

“It isn't,” Harry says, but takes a step away all the same. “It is, however, meant to entice you into meeting me in the same private room this evening, if you're amenable.”

“Depends,” Eggsy bites at his lip, running molten eyes over Harry's face. “You gonna be prepared this time?”

Harry thinks of the night before, of slipping his cock between the firm and satiny grip of Eggsy's thighs, and imagines opening him up one finger at a time, slick and flushed and wanting. Imagines sliding his cock into the clutch of his arse, and rutting there until he makes Eggsy shatter apart beneath his hands. He allows his mouth to curl, predatory. “Be thorough when you shower this evening,” he advises in lieu of a proper answer, and relishes the way Eggsy's gaze grows even hotter. “Until then,” he says in farewell, and turns to walk down the path.

Behind him, he hears Eggsy let out a quiet swear, and he can't quite bite back on the smile that rises up.

 

ooo

 

The next morning, Harry is far too relaxed and satiated to even pretend to be chastised by Merlin's scowl when he greets him by the stone benches in the back garden. The recruits are a steadily moving line of blobs in the distance, running in full gear and with their new companions by their side. He spares a moment of pity for Eggsy, who _had_ been thorough during his shower the night before and was no doubt currently suffering the brunt of Harry's full and thorough attention.

He holds out a mug of steaming breakfast tea, made exactly to Merlin's tastes. The magician scowls at him but takes it carefully from his hands, shoving his nose into the steam and taking a hearty inhale. “You're a fucking menace,” he says in thanks.

“You are lovely in the morning, Sunflower,” Harry says serenely, tempting fate. Merlin takes a pointed, vicious slurp of his tea, eyes sharp over the porcelain of his cup. He's going to pay for that one later, he knows it, but pays his friend no mind. He's too busy keenly tracking the line of candidates that grows steadily closer. He frowns when Eggsy comes to a stop on the path, body language tense and voice raised enough that they can hear him even at this distance, though the words themselves are lost in the wind. Alarmingly, he appears to aim his rifle straight at JB, and Harry can't quite stop the way that he takes a step forward.

“Don't,” Merlin says, holding out a hand, gaze also intent on Eggsy's movements as he bends at the waist and hefts the minuscule blob that is JB into his arms. When he begins to run, however, both hands are clearly clutched around his gun. “Interesting,” Merlin murmurs, and jots a note down on his clipboard with his stylus.

Then Eggsy jogs by, JB bobbing in and out of the neck of his vest with every jostling stride, and Harry can't suppress his bark of laughter. Eggsy turns, running backwards for a handful of metres, and grins back at him.

“The two of you are nauseating,” Merlin informs him blithely, alternately flicking through pages on his clipboard and scribbling with his stylus. “But, the lad is resourceful, I'll give him that.”

“I certainly have high hopes for him,” Harry agrees, turning back to Merlin and taking a sip of his coffee. “Truthfully, the only real competition he seems to have—in my opinion—is Roxanne Morton. Lovely girl,” he adds, taking a seat beside Merlin on the bench. “Percival's sister, is she not?”

“She is,” Merlin confirms without glancing up at Harry. “Though I'd keep an eye out for Charlie. Ruthless little bugger, that one. Has it out for Eggsy, as well, since he definitely seems to agree with Arthur on the issue of social class, and—” He's frowning down at his clipboard when he stops mid-sentence. “Ah, fuck,” he swears, and starts gathering his things as quickly as possible.

“What is it?” Harry asks, alarmed.

“Bors,” Merlin grunts, slipping his overcoat on around his shoulders. “It seems his meeting with Professor Arnold didn't go exactly to plan, considering he's unconscious in the medical ward as we speak, and Professor Arnold has been rather thoroughly exploded.”

Harry blinks.. “Shit,” he says, with feeling, raking a hand through his hair. “Is Jon going to be alright?”

“That remains to be seen,” Merlin says with a meaningful glance at Harry as he leans down to pick up his still hot cuppa. “It seems that, on top of the smoke inhalation and the rather hard knock to the head he took when he detonated his hand grenade, he was exposed to some sort of...unknown chemical.”,

“ _Shit_ ,” Harry swears again, pulling his glasses off to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “That should have been me.”

“Aye,” Merlin agrees gravely, and nudges at Harry's slumped shoulder with one elbow. “And not to display my blatant favouritism, but I'm mightily grateful that it isn't.”

Harry lets out a weak chuckle and drops his hand to his leg, digging his fingers into his knee in order to hide the minute tremble of them. “You do say the sweetest things, Sunflower.”

Merlin's scowl darkens anew. “Nevermind,” he growls, turning his back to Harry and taking loping steps toward the manor's rear entrance. “I wish you _were_ unconscious, you daft wanker.”

“I'll just stay here and supervise, shall I?” Harry calls back to him, and smirks into the rim of his mug when he gets a two-fingered salute in response. His eyes gravitate back to the distant figure of Eggsy, still jogging steadily and apparently still keeping JB nestled in the confines of his vest, since there's no sign of the little beast beside him.

Harry allows himself a wistful moment to think back on the days of his own training, of the shaking, feather-light Mr. Pickle with his tiny legs doing their best to keep up with Harry's long strides. He'd wound up tucking him into the deep pockets of his boiler suit, where he'd happily stayed, safe and warm.

The larger group of proposals jogs fast, some doing their best to glance at him discreetly from the corners of their eyes, and others—like Roxy—giving him a blatant and assessing look as they go past, puppies tripping happily over their own feet beside them.

A moment later, Eggsy passes by again, slowing down enough so that he can give Harry a crooked grin and a cheeky wink.

“Later, Eggsy,” Harry tells him, and shoos him back onto the path with a flick of his fingers.

“Promise?” Eggsy shouts back, but doesn't wait for a response. Harry supposes he should feel mildly offended that the lad just _assumes_ Harry is a sure thing, but anticipation eats away at any offence and warms him more than his coffee could ever hope to.

'Later,' however, comes at a rather inconvenient time, when Harry is meandering through the halls towards the train back to the shop and comes across a soaked Eggsy and a shivering, nervous JB.

“Did you forget to strip before showering?” he inquires as Eggsy begins to storm towards him.

Eggsy lets out a humourless laugh and curls JB closer to his body. The pug laps noisily, breathing heavy, at the beads of water gathered in the hollows of Eggsy's neck. “Charlie's a fucking prick,” he spits instead, vehement and furious. “Threw a bucket of water on me an' JB, called me a pleb, and stashed all the pyjamas and bedsheets so that I couldn't change 'em. Swear down, Harry, I'm gonna shoot him right in the cock one of these days.”

He gives a non-committal hum and reaches out to pull the trembling puppy out of Eggsy's damp, chilled arms and into Harry's warmer, dry embrace. “Well, I wish you luck on that excessively violent endeavour, assuming that you're able to find the microscopic phallus in question.” The laugh that shakes out of Eggsy at that is more real, less strained, and some of the ugly tension drains itself out of his shoulders, leaving him merely hunched and shivering. “Come along, then,” Harry says, and holds his hand out for Eggsy to take in his own. “We'll find you a fresh set somewhere.”

Their hands slot together perfectly, Harry notes with no small amount of satisfaction, and pulls Eggsy to his side, wet pyjamas and all. Eggsy comes willingly, and his body curves into Harry's perfectly, too.

JB snuffles into the crisp edge of Harry's collar, and when Eggsy reaches up to pet at his head, his fingers brush against Harry's neck.

Harry leans down and steals a gentle, brushing kiss across his knuckles, and feels that knot of warmth in his chest grow larger, hotter, at the easy crease of Eggsy's smile.

 

ooo

 

The months ease by with a remarkable quickness to the days, and Eggsy's training continues and JB grows (marginally) larger until he's a properly snub-faced and wheezing beast who nearly never leaves Eggsy's side and, quite frankly, _adores_ Harry. Which admittedly makes their private rendezvous a bit difficult, until Eggsy cajoles Roxy into watching over JB while he and Harry take an hour or two every other day to rut each other like adolescents.

Harry learns all of the places on Eggsy's body that make him tremble when they're kissed, that make him arch when they're gripped, and that make him shout when they're bitten. He comes to memorise the exact cadence of breath that means Eggsy is about to come, and the way his own name sounds, bitten-off and wondering, falling from those parted lips. He knows what Eggsy tastes like, from the depths of his mouth to the heavy weight of his cock against Harry's soft palate, from the sweaty crease of thigh and groin to the pure essence of _Eggsy_ that he tastes beneath the faint bitter tang of soap-clean skin when he presses his tongue into his arse.

More importantly, however, Harry learns Eggsy. Not just the enticing clutch of his body, but the marvellous surprise of the depth of his wit. He comes to cherish every anecdote that Eggsy is willing to share about his childhood, and shares the memories he has of Lee in kind, because Eggsy listens hungrily to stories about a man whom he just barely remembers. He very quickly comes to admire the ease and agility Eggsy shows with his firearms and in his hand to hand combat training, old gymnastic abilities unrooting themselves and assisting Eggsy in his ascent to the top of the class. He's second only to Roxy, and by a thin margin of points where she edges past in their NLP training, but he seems chuffed enough.

“Of course Rox is top,” he insists when Harry tells him one evening, chin perched upon his sternum. They're each still breathing more heavily than usual, and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Harry's hips are aching pleasantly, thighs trembling from how tightly they'd been clutched about Eggsy's waist. “She's fuckin' aces.”

Harry runs the flat of his palm up the dip in Eggsy's spine, coming to a rest between his shoulder blades and rubbing back and forth in the manner he knows Eggsy finds soothing. “You're quite remarkable yourself,” he tells him honestly, and Eggsy goes predictably and delectably red. He laments both his age and the already too-sensitive arse that's just received a very thorough buggering, because Eggsy is nigh on irresistible. The body is willing, but the flesh was weak, and so on. “You really must stop selling yourself short, Eggsy, or you'll never truly be aware of your own potential.”

“Yeah, well,” Eggsy deflects, leaning up for a kiss. “That's what I got you for, innit?”

“I mean it, darling,” Harry says, accepting the kiss regardless of its attempt at distraction. “I have the utmost faith in you. I've no doubt you'll be a Kingsman yet.”

Eggsy just sighs and lowers his head until his ear is pressed against the thrum of Harry's heart beneath his ribcage. “I s'pose.”

A few weeks later, Harry takes it upon himself to steal Eggsy away from the dormitories for a private dinner in his office in the hopes of properly celebrating both the 99% he'd been awarded on his written examination, but also the top marks he'd received in his sniping training, completely blowing Charlie and Roxy out of the water. The intent alone is worth the way Eggsy's face transforms when he saunters into Harry's office, falling from his usual subtle smirk into something soft and surprised, nearly bashful, when he takes in the covered dishes and the lit candles.

“What's this, then?” he asks, running his fingers along the fine linen tablecloth, touching lightly at the silverware. He peers up at Harry, and that unsure quirk to his brow just won't do. Harry presses in and burnishes a sweet kiss to the apple of his cheek.

“Consider it a congratulations, of sorts,” he advises, crossing behind Eggsy to pull out his chair. He waits until the boy is settled, seat nudging forward, and moves to his own place across from Eggsy with one last sweep of his fingers over the line of his shoulders. Before he takes a seat, he removes the coverings from the food, revealing the meal to Eggsy's eyes.

A luscious cut of filet mignon, cooked to Eggsy's preference and topped with an exquisite bearnaise sauce; a small pile of sautéed asparagus, tossed on a skillet with olive oil and finely minced garlic; a healthy portion of potatoes dauphinoise, creamy and fragrant. There's a bottle of champagne next to the table, chilling in an ice bucket, and Harry reaches for it with a smile at the gobsmacked look of gratitude on Eggsy's face. He tucks a napkin carefully around the top and twists at the wire until the cork pops safely into the constraints of the cloth, liquid fizzing gently in the neck of the bottle. He pours Eggsy half a flute, unsure of how he feels about the sparkling wine, and does the same for himself. Once the bottle is back in the bucket, Harry raises his glass for a toast.

“To you, Eggsy,” he offers, “for a job bloody well done.”

Eggsy scoffs and shakes his head, but clinks their flutes together all the same. When he takes a cautious sip, nose wrinkling as the carbonation flickers at his nostrils, he looks at Harry with an expression of pleased surprise. “That ain't half bad,” he says, and takes another sip before setting the glass down and holding his hand out across the small table, palm up.

Harry slips his hand into Eggsy's and smiles into his champagne when the younger man traces circles into the delicate skin of his wrist.

“No one's ever done nothin' like this for me before,” Eggsy says, voice pitched low and soft. He stares at Harry with those gorgeously peridot eyes, gone limpid with an emotion Harry's never seen them hold prior to this moment. He feels smile dim a bit, thoughtful. “No one's ever treated me as good as you, Harry.”

“A grave oversight on their part.” Harry sets down his glass and squeezes Eggsy's hand before withdrawing so that he can unfurl his napkin and spread it out across his lap. “And it's certainly my pleasure to remedy such a misfortune.”

“But why?” Eggsy presses, dropping his hand into his lap. Harry can perfectly envision the nervous knot he's twining his fingers into, out of sight and below the table.

“Well, for starters,” Harry begins, picking up his cutlery and motioning for Eggsy to do the same. “There's the matter of your test scores, which were better than I could have ever hoped for, I'm a bit ashamed to admit. A-stars all around, in fact, very impressive. Merlin was quite eager to point out that you scored higher on your written examination than even I did, back in my day.” He watches the corners of Eggsy's mouth dip in happy surprise, eyebrows going up his forehead and eyes crinkling. He curls those lovely, strong hands around his knife and fork and carves a careful, small section of beef from the main cut. Harry pauses in his own ministrations to watch, gratified when Eggsy lets out a low, involuntary moan.

“There's also the matter,” he continues, slicing off a thin and delicate portion of steak and dabbing it into the excess juices, “of my rather selfish desire to share a private moment with you that doesn't involve the removal of clothing and a tryst in a single sized bed, wonderful as those times may be.” He takes a moment to chew and swallow the portion of meat, then adds, “It's just that you look particularly lovely by candlelight.”

Eggsy ducks his head and grumbles. “Come off it, bruv. Y'ain't gotta butter me up, Harry, I'm a sure thing, yeah?” He sips again at his champagne.

Harry inhales slowly through his nose, praying for patience. He sets down his cutlery with regret, having only indulged in the single bite, and wipes at his mouth with his napkin before pushing back his chair and standing. He takes the few, small steps to Eggsy's side, and then sinks down to his knees.

“Put down your fork,” he commands, wishing to wrap his fingers over Eggsy's left hand. Eggsy does, and so _Harry_ does, and it's a lovely clasp of skin of which he'll never tire. Harry runs his thumb in a line over the knobby protrusion of knuckles and looks into Eggsy's eyes, dead on, from his place crouched on the floor.

“When I say you're lovely by the candlelight,” he begins, allowing his eyes to trace along the curve of Eggsy's cheek where the shadows jump and flicker. “It isn't because I'm trying to...'butter you up.' It's because I think you're lovely. At all times, in fact, but more so in particular moments. Such as when you're across from me, warm and enjoying dinner. Or when you're at the firing range and you change your clip with an ease and grace that still escapes a few agents. Or when you're studying with Roxy, and she says something that makes you laugh so hard your head tilts back.” Eggsy sets down his knife, as well, and leans over the arm of his chair so that he can smooth the backs of his fingers down Harry's temple and the edge of his cheek, then runs them beneath the cut of his jaw. Harry leans into the whispering touch, relishing the extra contact. “I find you perfectly wonderful when you aren't even nearby, Eggsy, because you _are_ wonderful. Exemplary, even. And to be completely frank, I'm honoured that it's my company you choose to grace most nights.”

He turns Eggsy's hand over and kisses at the fat of his palm, then curls the lad's fingers shut, as if to keep the press of Harry's lips trapped inside.

“You soppy shit,” Eggsy breathes through his watery, beaming grin. “How many fuckin' rom-coms you watched before you got that down, huh?”

“Too many,” Harry confides drily, and slowly levers himself out of the crouch so that he can lean in and lick his way into Eggsy's mouth. He tastes of champagne, and Harry chases the flavour of it across every inch of his tongue.

“Now then,” he murmurs when he pulls away, body humming with satisfaction. “Shall we continue our meal, or do you require more convincing of your own desirability?”

Eggsy pushes him away, playful, a flush high on his cheeks and the glint in his eye pleased. “I'm starved, me,” he declares. “Fuck off and let me eat this fancy dinner, else I'm gonna end up blowing you under the table.”

“That's a terrible incentive,” Harry notes, settling back into his chair. “Though I suppose, either way, you won't be leaving on an empty stomach.”

Eggsy laughs just as he bites into a spear of asparagus, eyes still sparkling and warm. The steeled toe of his boot nudges at the inside of Harry's Oxford beneath the table, and he presses back. They spend the next half hour slowly finishing their meals and the bottle of champagne. The conversation flows between them, natural and never stilted, the pauses always comfortable instead of awkward. Once their plates have been emptied, their chairs seem to gravitate together until their knees knock together and Eggsy's half in Harry's lap, leaning up and in to run his fingers through the wave of his hair. They are, rather absurdly, discussing the reality and semantics of having an invisible car, when a familiar and heavy-handed knock sounds at the door.

Eggsy jolts and begins to withdraw, but Harry keeps him close with a hand clasped around his inner thigh. “Merlin,” he reassures, then louder and toward the direction of his office door, “Come in.”

The door ekes open and Merlin's bald head peers around slowly, as if he's afraid one of them is going to have their trousers round their ankles. Which, considering the hilarious number of times that he's walked in on the two of them sharing a passionate moment, is a reasonable concern for him to have. He looks relieved at their full state of dress, but still vaguely nauseated when he takes in the intimacy of their body language and the melting candles, burnt halfway down and puddling wax in the holders.

“Eggsy,” he greets, standing in the doorway with his hands clasped around his clipboard. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need a moment alone with Harry.”

Harry feels more than sees Eggsy's sigh and the way he starts to retract himself from Harry's personal space, and he tightens his grip in kind. “Nonsense,” he refutes, “Let the boy stay. He may learn a thing or two.”

Merlin's jaw clenches a bit in the way that means he wants to argue, but isn't in the mood. Harry sits up a bit straighter, but doesn't distance himself from Eggsy in the slightest. Merlin walks up to the large, ornamental mirror that's perched above his fireplace, and depresses a protruding knot in the frame. The screen flickers to life, Kingsman 'K' rotating round until Merlin taps quickly on his clipboard and brings up a video.

“It may interest you to know,” he says without looking up, fingers still flying over his tablet, “that Bors woke up two hours ago, long enough to provide us with the password for his personal transmission feed. This,” he gestures towards the mirror with his stylus, “is what we were able to pull from his glasses.” He raps his stylus against the clipboard, and the video begins to play.

Eggsy flinches when Bors strikes Professor Arnold across the face, swearing invectives about how his colleague died in an attempt to rescue him, and jerks back even further when the thin tissue of Arnold's neck flares bright and red just before his skull explodes, scattering brain matter over the lenses. “Fuckin' hell,” he gags, and Harry silently agrees. “He blew up his head? Bit much, innit?”

“Something tells me that Bors didn't do anything of the sort,” Harry says, patting Eggsy's knee in reassurance, lest he believe that decapitation by explosives is a Kingsman standard. Too messy, clearly. Harry's much more fond of poisons, personally.

“Harry's right,” Merlin says, and rewinds to zoom in on Professor Arnold's neck just before the explosion occurred. There's a bright fissure sprawling across his neck and jaw, like his veins are made of fire. At the centre of the sprawling, spidery weave of them, there's a small section in the shape of a square that's a hot, bright colour. “There was some sort of device, beneath this scar on his neck, that killed the professor and released some sort of toxin that was responsible for keeping Jon under as long as he was. Fortunately, we were able to get a trace on its signal. _Un_ fortunately, we traced it all the way back to the Valentine Corporation, one of the most heavily protected software companies in the world.”

Eggsy sucks in air from between his teeth, calling Merlin and Harry's attention back to him. “Richmond Valentine's going 'round blowing up heads? Bit not good, bruv. And just this morning I were thinking he's a proper genius, too.”

Harry shifts a little further towards Eggsy, curious. Merlin is far less patient, eyebrows jolting up his forehead and hands gesturing for him to come out with it already. Eggsy's brows come together as he glances between the two of them, confused. “What...you ain't seen the news?” he asks, and when they both shake their head with varying levels of exasperation, the look on his face transforms into something pleased. He makes a motion towards Merlin's tablet, eyebrows cocked in question, and when Merlin hesitates, fingers curling around the edges, Harry rolls his eyes and snatches the clipboard out of his hands. He places it into Eggsy's outstretched palm and gets a small, grateful smile for his trouble.

Eggsy's fingers fly over the clipboard and pull up a video on the mirror's screen. Richmond Valentine paces across a stage, addressing an audience, and Harry feels a growing knot of dread as the man details his plans to release free sim cards to everyone, everywhere, in an effort to revolutionise the technological world. He's charismatic, approachable, and it makes him seem all the more dangerous in Harry's eyes. People will trust this man easily, implicitly, happy to jump at the opportunity for the free luxury he's offering to them while he brutally kills a man out of their sight.

“Y'see?” Eggsy presses, pausing the video as Valentine begins to stride off stage. Merlin snatches it back as soon as it becomes apparent Eggsy is finished with the tablet. “He's going 'round, blowing up people, and handing out billions of free sims? Something don't feel right.”

“I agree,” Harry mutters, and pulls the newly reclaimed clipboard back out of Merlin's hands. The Scot crosses his arms over his chest, petulant, and scowls at Harry and then towards the mirror. Harry flicks at the image, zooming in and enhancing until the neck of Valentine's assistant comes into focus.

A scar, thin and slivered, cuts a pink line behind her jaw. Merlin's hands fall to his hips and he and Harry share a significant look. “You may have a point about these sim cards, Eggsy,” Harry says, and hands the board back over to Merlin with care and a nod of thanks.

“I'll be sure to inform Bors and Arthur.” Merlin presses the disguised switch for the mirror again, and the screen flickers off, the surface becoming reflective once more. “In the meantime, I'll let the two of you get back to playing footsie until curfew. Which,” he says with a pointed, stern look towards Eggsy, “is in an hour and a half. Don't let this one be a bad influence, Eggsy. He'd be late for his own bloody funeral.”

“I'm not _late,_ ” Harry sniffs. “I merely build anticipation for my presence.”

“You're merely a wanker, is what you are,” Merlin tosses back over his shoulder as he moves towards the door. “Remember, Eggsy, an hour and a half. If you're so much as a minute over, I'm confining you to the dormitories for a week.” He gives their indignant faces a nod, smirk growing on his own. “Gentlemen,” he bids in a goodbye, and then the door clicks shut behind him.

“Twat,” Harry notes affectionately, then turns his body fully into Eggsy's, one hand curving back over the top of his thigh and the other slipping along his neck. He draws their faces together and kisses Eggsy's top lip between both of his own, then does the same with the pout of his bottom lip. “An hour and a half,” he muses, then dips back down for an open-mouthed kiss, Eggsy's tongue slipping into his mouth. He drops his hand from his neck down to his hip and pulls, dragging Eggsy out of his chair and into Harry's lap. “Whatever shall we do in that amount of time?”

Eggsy grins into the next kiss, body shifting until he's straddling Harry in the antique chair. “I can think of summat,” he says, and undulates his hips down, grinding them together. 

Harry inhales sharply through his nose and slips his hands around Eggsy's waist. “You see?” he tells him, pulling their groins more sharply together. He whispers the praise into Eggsy's cheek: _“Remarkable.”_

 

 

 

 

 


	2. two

Eggsy makes it into the final six candidates, a fact that doesn't surprise Harry but he feels exquisitely proud about nonetheless. They celebrate the fact over a quiet lunch in the courtyard, followed by a walk around the grounds that inevitably ends with Eggsy backing Harry up against a tree and kissing him until they're both breathless and wanting, hard in their trousers. They could sneak themselves into the privacy of Harry's office for a quick shag, but there's something so terribly alluring about the way Eggsy tilts his face into the warmth of the sun, how he drifts into Harry's side and leans up for a kiss every now and then. Even the snog against the tree isn't harried or fraught with urgency; despite the somewhat painful erections they're both sporting, they're slow to drink one another in, hands never wandering below the dip of Eggsy's waist. Eggsy, for his part, keeps his arms looped around Harry's neck, one hand carding gently through his hair as they kiss languidly like a couple of lovestruck teenagers.

Something inside of Harry has become settled, leaving him content to stand next to Eggsy and simply _be_. The burning, desperate lust that consumed him at the beginning of all of this, that drove him to fuck between Eggsy's thighs Oxford style mere hours after their (second) meeting, has gentled into a simmering warmth. Desire still has a firm grasp on him, leaving him hungry for contact with Eggsy in any form he can get it, but rather than spending inane hours fantasising about his cock or his arse or the heat of his mouth, he finds himself yearning simply for his presence.

It's a heady sensation, Harry thinks, the dangerous fall into love.

He's not melodramatic enough to spend time agonising over whether or not his feelings are reciprocated; at his age, such hysterics are frankly an embarrassment. He's seen the way that Eggsy looks at him, soft and content. He's felt the unspoken sentiment against his lips, pressed there by the beloved pout of Eggsy's mouth. He hears it in the way that Eggsy says his name every now and then, like it's his favourite word.

Harry does his best to return the favour. He tucks Eggsy close to his chest once they're finished making a mess of both themselves and the bed and whispers a kiss across his forehead. He arranges for Eggsy to make (monitored) phone calls home at least once a week, to reassure his mum that he's alive and well and so that he can beg her to stay as far away from Valentine's free sim cards as she can. He leaves copies of Pretty Woman, My Fair Lady, and Goldfinger in the recruit dormitories, leaving no note but trusting Eggsy to know who provided the films. He tucks spare bits of meat or fish into a paper napkin so that he can treat JB to the scraps later, if only because Eggsy smiles and half-heartedly chides him for doing so, but Harry knows how much he cares for the wrinkly faced monster.

(“I'm glad I wound up with him,” Eggsy confides one day as they watch JB snuffle around in the foliage of the manor's lush garden. A bit of pollen gets onto his nose and he spends a decent amount of time running in circles and sneezing constantly, and the look in Eggsy's eyes is unbearably fond even as he crouches down and scrubs at the dog's face with his sleeve. “Even if I thought he was a bulldog. I was the last one to pick, yeah, and no one even thought twice about picking the other dogs. He were so fucking small, s'like they just...passed right over him. But the joke's on them, ain't it, JB? You're a proper hound, you.”

JB lets out a little hoot in response, and butts his head against Harry's knee.)

Eggsy makes it to the final six, and Harry's unable to resist the urge to hover at Merlin's terminal during the Emergency Tactical Manoeuvres test, thinly disguised as an exercise in parachute training. Eggsy's been chattering excitedly about his first solo dive ever since he completed enough practice hours to qualify for it, and had nearly been vibrating with anticipation that morning when they'd come across each other in the halls. Harry had been allowed to take him for a tandem jump once, and only once, because the adrenaline had gotten the best of them and Merlin had been forced to unearth them from beneath the billowing shroud of their parachute, kissing furiously against the lawn.

He's still fairly bitter over it, if the sour look he gives Harry when he pulls up a chair beside him is any indication. “Are you going to be able to keep your trousers on for this?” he grouses, but accepts the mug of coffee that Harry hands him with a grudging mumble of thanks.

Harry chooses not to reward his sour attitude with a response, and takes a louder than necessary sip of his own coffee, regarding Merlin coolly over the lip of the mug. He turns his attention to the monitor, where the green blip of the plane moves steadily along its designated path. Merlin presses the button on his keyboard that opens up the channel between him and all the proposals

The comms crackle to life with the sound of someone's heavy breathing, in the midst of muttering, _“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”_ Eggsy's voice comes out of the speakers, muffled and static over the quiet swears. “What, don't like heights?”

“Yeah,” Roxy's voice sounds, slightly strained and breathless. “S'okay. Done it before, which is...probably why, come to think of it.” She takes a deep breath and Harry doesn't miss the way that Merlin tilts forward in his chair, dark brows furrowing together with mild concern. He smirks into his next sip of coffee.

“Hey,” Eggsy says after a moment's pause. “It's gonna be alright. You're top of the class.”

There's a gentle, relieved laugh for his efforts. Harry's smirk calms into a smile as he stares into his mug, thumb rubbing against the handle. So gentle, his boy, and always quick to provide reassurance to Roxy on the rare occasions that her nerves get the best of her. He'd done the same for Sebastian, Gawain's recruit, on a more frequent basis. It was for the best, really, that the lad hadn't made it past the written examination—Gawain had admitted fairly early on that he didn't think his proposal had the right constitution for the job, but he'd been fresh off of a three month stint in Prague and had brought in the first name that popped into his head.

Granted, it's not as if Harry's selection process had been much more complicated, but Eggsy's pure, unadulterated potential had screamed up at him from the pages of his file, and the choice had been easy, if not a bit rash.

There's a faint beep from the monitors as the plane moves closer into alignment, and Harry lifts his head to watch its progress.

Merlin depresses the button on his microphone and addresses the six candidates, tone sharp as he instructs, “Listen up. Your mission is to land in the target without the radar detecting you. If I read you on the radar, or you miss the target, you go home. Is that understood?”

There's no response, other than the weighty silence and the faint wheeze of panicked breathing. Another beep sounds as the plane comes close enough into range that Merlin can inform them that the drop zone is approaching, and that they have twenty seconds until they need to make the jump.

Eggsy's voice holds a regretful note when he tells Roxy, “We gotta go.”

There's the mechanic whir and grind of the drop door opening, then the faint scuffle as the group stands and shuffles forward towards the gaping exit. Roxy sounds strangled when she speaks next, and Harry watches Merlin carefully for his reaction. “Eggsy, I really don't think I can do this.”

Merlin's mouth turns down, ever so slightly, and the corners of his eyes lose their hard squint and gain an edge of sympathy. It's remarkable to see the change come over him, and Harry drinks it in with no small amount of glee. There's a part of him that's pleased to see Merlin showing an interest in someone, as his romantic entanglements are far and few between, and a larger part of him that's looking forward to taking the piss out of his best friend in retribution for all the shit he's been given about his relationship with Eggsy.

He only realises he's smiling a bit too broadly at the thought when Merlin gives him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye. He does his best to tame the grin with a slow shrug and a nod back toward the monitor.

“Of course you can't. Head to the back and I'll show you how, yeah?” comes Charlie's voice, snide and pompous through and through. He truly is Chester's prodigy, Harry thinks, and they hear the gentle clink and scrape of equipment as he pushes past them.

A notification pops up on the screen, informing them the drop zone's been approached. There comes a series of excited shouts from Rufus, Charlie, Digby, and Hugo, but Eggsy and Roxy's markers remain stagnant on the steady drift of the plane. Merlin switches off the former four's comms so that they can listen exclusively to the two left behind.

“Eggsy!” Roxy cries out. “Eggsy, wait! Hang on!”

“Roxy, just _stop_ fucking about,” Eggsy orders her, tone brisk. Then, gentler: “Follow me, yeah?”

There's a pause, a brief respite of noise, and then the bright, fiercely happy sound of Eggsy's joy erupts from the speakers. Harry's chest feels tight, suddenly, two sizes too small for the way that his heart seems to swell and go full to bursting when he hears Eggsy's whooping cries. Even beyond the glory of having new information with which to tease Merlin, he's happy that he made the choice to sit in and observe this test, if only because it means he gets to hear the clear ring of Eggsy's laughter.

He manages to cajole Roxy out of the relatively safe confines of the aircraft carrier, and her marker slowly drifts down the grid on-screen to join the other five. Merlin patches all the comms back in, eyebrows ticking up at the sheer amount of fun they all seem to be having.

“My, my, you're all very cheerful,” he drawls, shifting forward in his seat. He and Harry share a devious look between them as he prepares to initiate the emergency. “Did you really think it would be that straightforward? Any idiot can read a heads up display. A Kingsman agent needs to be able to solve problems under pressure. Like what to do when one of your group has no parachute.”

Harry can't resist biting at his own lips with amusement at the panic that screeches out of the proposals, colourful with all of its oaths and Roxy's shriek of, “That's horseshit!” Merlin's mouth tilts up, maniacal and crooked. “I told you, aim for the target, come in under the radar. And I hope not to be scraping one of you up. But I do have to, and you're inside of the target...please know I'll be very impressed.”

“My word,” Harry says, when Merlin's pulled his finger away from the switch on the microphone so that he may simply lean back and watch. “You do realise we're meant to be testing their ability with emergency tactics and not how quickly they can shit their pants, don't you?”

“No reason we can't manage both,” Merlin assures him, still looking utterly pleased with the havoc he's caused. Harry experiences a brief moment of concern over the fact that this is the man into whose hands he places his life with every mission, but, he reasons, the candidates are in no real danger. All six of them are equipped with chutes, and Merlin would never dare to be so blasé were there a real chance of a life in the balance. As it were, Merlin's been putting up with Harry for years and hasn't let him die out of spite yet, so he's confident in the other man's ability to compartmentalise his personal and professional lives.

Mostly, anyway. There was that incident in Durban in the late eighties they don't dare mention, for fear of going through a second six month burst of not talking to one another.

“Everybody listen, I've got a plan!” Eggsy shouts. He's the first to overcome his panic, and while his tone is strained it also holds a chord of command, making that prideful thing in Harry's chest preen. “Pair off, and grab the person closest to you!”

It's a simple enough plan, but terribly efficient and reasonable. It's also, however, ruined by the cowardice of Bedivere's proposal. Harry, for all that he knows no one's life is truly at risk, can't help but sit forward in alarm when Rufus pulls his chute and leaves Eggsy to hurtle through the air alone, shouting a strangled and emphatic 'fuck' into the comms. He recovers quickly, admirably, and urges the rest of the group to come together in a circle and establishes another plan, one that will still keep any of their rank from succumbing to a messy and unfortunate death.

“Good plan, Eggsy,” Merlin praises, watching as the lot of them quickly approach the minimum safe height for chute release. His tone kicks up, a note of urgency finally working its way in. “You have thirty seconds. Come on, now, hurry.”

Harry's spine loses some of its tension, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Merlin glance at him, wary and considering, as though he's just been given new information and has to re-evaluate something he thought he'd known well enough already.

“You're worried about him,” he murmurs, gesturing towards the monitor with his coffee. “You've no reason to be, aye? The boy's more than capable, and he's got a parachute, besides.”

“Yes, well,” Harry responds tersely, unable to keep himself from tracking the progress of the five markers as they descend, pulling up and slowing down one by one. _Rufus_ , trailing far behind and long since caught in the radar. _Hugo._ “It seems rather unavoidable.”

_Digby. Charlie._

Eggsy and Roxy continue dropping. Merlin sets his mug on the desk with a heavy clank, actual concern beginning to tug at his forehead and turning down the corners of his mouth. Harry's vertebrae shift into rigidity once more, one by one until he's painfully upright, fingers digging into the sensitive flesh of his inner elbow. He sees Merlin scrub a hand down his face, fingers dragging lines around either side of his mouth, and the blatant, outward display of stress frightens Harry almost as much as the thought of Eggsy in free-fall, tumbling ever closer to the unforgiving earth.

He yearns suddenly, keenly, for the solidity of the young man's frame beneath his hands as Eggsy shouts a reassurance to Roxy, voice hoarse with fear. “Roxy, no matter what happens now, I've got you, alright? Yours first, okay?”

Their markers drop below the altitude minimum of one-thousand feet. Merlin fumbles for his mug and accidentally knocks it to the ground, shattering the porcelain and spilling still hot coffee all over Harry's shoe and the hem of his trousers, burning at his ankle through the delicate fabric of his sock. “Shit,” Merlin swears, glancing at the mess quickly before riveting his eyes back to the screen.

Beneath five hundred, and Harry shoots to his feet, his own drink joining the pile of white shards on the floor. He reaches out and curves a hand over Merlin's shoulder, gripping tightly, and holds on for dear life. Merlin's hand comes up immediately and circles his wrist, clenching so hard it's sure to leave a bruise.

At just under three hundred feet, there's the sound of a parachute being deployed, and the horrid, awful sound of Eggsy finally losing any modicum of composure he was holding onto. The two of them slow, not enough to assuage any concerns, but the way their dots stay on top of one another is, at the very least, a positive indicator that Eggsy is attached to a parachute in some form or another.

The deafening, slightly muffled screams of panic are, however, less than encouraging. The two bodies hit the ground with a crash of limbs and equipment, the impact sounding painful. The relieved gasps and hard breathing, followed by the crazed and too high trill of Eggsy's laughter, are a balm on Harry's jangled composure.

Amazingly, wonderfully, _inexplicably_...they've landed directly in the 'K.'

He squeezes Merlin's shoulder hard, once more, before they release their grips on one another and Harry pivots, striding briskly for the door that will take him to the access corridor that leads out to the lawn. He doesn't truly relax until he's outdoors and bracing his hands against the low stone wall on the terrace, looking down at Eggsy's sprawled figure. Even from here, he can hear the hysterical laughter of the terrifically thankful. There he stays, observant and vigilant, for the time it takes for Charlie to come to a thumping halt, knees braced in the dead centre of the encircled K, and for the time it takes for the three failed recruits to trudge up, disappointment and the heavy fabric of their parachutes weighing down their steps.

He stays long enough to see the confrontation between Merlin and brash, bold, lovely Eggsy, watches them go toe to toe and stare each other down until Merlin pulls the ripcord and a gust of wind pulls Eggsy to the ground. When the parachute deflates enough, drifting slowly towards the ground, Harry can see that Eggsy is sprawled across the grass, arms crossed behind his head and feet crossed at the ankles. He's staring up at the sky and seems in no rush to join Charlie and Roxy in their bunk.

He trots down the stone staircase, the soles of his shoes scraping on the rock in a soothing cadence as he descends, and approaches Eggsy's prone figure. The parachute is nothing more than a heavy draping of fabric on the grass, billowing gently with the breeze. Eggsy's eyes are closed, face tilted up to the sun.

“You are bound and determined to send me to an early grave, it seems,” is what comes out of Harry's mouth. It's a marked improvement over the _My God you're beautiful please let me keep you, you gorgeous creature_ that wants to trip, heavy and horribly forward and not the least bit as poetic as Harry wants to be, off of his tongue.

Eggsy, to his credit, doesn't flinch at the sudden interruption of what appears to be a quite peaceful moment. His mouth ticks up into a smile. “Nah,” he defers, squinting one eye open as Harry comes to stand over him. “I like you alive and kickin', me.”

All of the tension, and all of the morning's strain, seep completely from Harry's bones and absorb harmlessly into the earth at the sight of that slight grin. He drops into a crouch by Eggsy's side, gratified when the lad rises up on his elbows in a lazy attempt at meeting him halfway. Harry hangs his hands between his knees, plucking a particularly long blade of grass and twirling it between his fingers. He looks out across the manor's grounds, considering the peaceful acres of land that house one of Britain's deadliest secret services agencies. “The feeling is rather mutual,” he confides, dropping his eyes back down to Eggsy and granting him a fond smile, top lip slipping up to reveal his teeth.

Eggsy huffs out a breathy laugh, and then a groan when he starts to heave himself into a crouch that matches Harry's so that he can start reeling in the cords and nylon of his chute. The twist of his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw, and the way his hair begins to tussle in the breeze proves to be more of a temptation than Harry can resist, and he places his hand against the angled slope of where Eggsy's neck and shoulder meet. The feel of his HALO suit against his palm isn't satisfying, and so he shifts his hand upwards, tips of his middle and index fingers slipping into the short hairs at the nape of Eggsy's neck and his thumb brushing into the sensitive hollow behind his ear.

Eggsy stops what he's doing and slowly turns his head, careful not to dislodge Harry's grip. He must see something in the lines of Harry's face, in the crease of his smile—lips shut now, but no less genuinely affectionate—because something shifts behind his eyes. Incredulity is as stunning on Eggsy as his most lustful glances, head tilting slightly as he considers Harry with the same piercing intensity he offers everything he truly cares about.

Harry drops his knees into the lawn, no longer caring if his trousers stain, and fits his mouth over Eggsy's in a closed-mouth, heady kiss.

 

ooo

 

Eggsy shuffles into his office a week later just as Harry's reviewing Bors' report of his unexpectedly private dinner with Richmond Valentine, making notes in the margins about the hostile exchange of words they'd shared about reality versus the campiness of old Bond films. Bors, too close to the situation, probably didn't catch the thinly veiled barbs and threats Valentine offered to him on a silver platter beside a Big Mac, but Harry can see them easily as an outsider to the conversation. He jots down a note to mention something to Arthur and Merlin, and then glances up towards Eggsy's hang-dog expression.

Even JB seems oddly subdued, still panting noisily, but well behaved. He hasn't hooted once, or attempted to crawl into Harry's lap, choosing instead to stay close and rub his haunches against the leg of his owner.

“What's the matter?” Harry asks immediately, pulling his reading glasses off of his nose and tossing them onto his desk, standing and circling the furniture until he can brush two fingers under Eggsy's chin and tilt their gazes together. “You look dreadful.”

Eggsy grunts and holds up a manilla file folder, **NLP** written on the tab in Merlin's blocking print. _Ah._

“Your neuro-linguistic skills are above par,” Harry reassures him, feigning interest as he flips through the folder's contents. Agent Nyneve's face stares, eyes unfocused, up from the photograph. She'll be masquerading in plain sight under her own name and in her usual Friday evening club, the target of their rather simple mission: seduce Lady Sophie Montague-Herring. “I'm positive you'll fare admirably.”

And he is. He's absolutely certain that Eggsy will keep his discretion, even as a train barrels down upon him. The boy is nothing if not fiercely loyal, and Harry harbours no concerns about the outcome of this test.

Eggsy shifts his weight, arms crossing across his chest and he looks at Harry with unease. “So...you's okay with this?” he asks, flicking at the folder. “Even though it means I've gotta shag some girl I never met?”

 _Oh,_ Harry thinks, a touch surprised; of course Eggsy would have concerns. While Harry knows what the evening's future truly holds, Eggsy most assuredly does _not_ , and it's no wonder he looks torn. For all that their physical relationship has always thrived on closeness, it's only been in recent weeks that intimacy has entered the equation, leaving them both breathless at the slightest touches and their bodies in constant, unconscious orbit. It's a delicate precipice they've climbed together, and Eggsy no doubt fears this mission will jeopardise them personally in some manner.

His own thoughts from mere moments prior come back to him: _Eggsy is nothing if not fiercely loyal_ . He should have expected that same unyielding faithfulness to extend to this new facet of Eggsy's life, and it's extremely gratifying to know that Eggsy is concerned with how _Harry_ is going to deal with his potential romp.

Truth be told, Harry has a possessive streak a mile wide, and the thought of Eggsy laying down with anyone else—well. It sits none too pleasantly in his stomach, curdling the rather lovely breakfast he'd consumed that morning. He has nothing to be worried about, he attempts to tell himself, but the jealous beast in his chest wants no such reassurances; instead, it wants him to sink his fingers so hard into Eggsy's hips and drag the boy forward and keep him where Harry can see him, touch him, kiss him.

“A hazard of the job, I'm afraid,” he says instead, closing the file and handing it back to Eggsy, who frowns up at him.

“What, so this happens all the time?” he demands, taking a step closer.

It doesn't, to be perfectly honest; exclusive honeypots are a rare breed of mission, sprouting up perhaps three times a year, but Harry needs to tread carefully, lest Eggsy become suspicious about the evening's fate.

“It's important,” he says, in lieu of giving a direct answer, “that you learn to separate yourself from the more...unpleasant aspects of this job, Eggsy. I'm not telling you to disassociate yourself from them completely, but it's good to have the occasional firm line between personal and professional. Which, I understand, can be difficult, but please know that if the mark sways in your favour...I won't be angry with you.” Eggsy looks as though he's about to begin protesting, so Harry corrects himself: “That isn't to say I'll be particularly pleased about sharing you, my dear. Quite the opposite, in fact, but there are parts of the job we must face head on to accomplish our duty, despite our aversion to them.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees glumly, thumbing at the file folder. “I s'pose.”

The pout juts out the lower lip of Eggsy's mouth _just so_ , and Harry can't resist leaning in to tug it between his teeth.

All thoughts of honeypot missions melt away in favour of Eggsy's sharp inhale through his nose, and the way his arms slip into a loop around Harry's neck.

The memory of both of those things carry Harry through the day and well into the evening, until he's leaning casually against Merlin's terminal, watching Eggsy's prone and unconscious body be tied to the false tracks. “Those shoes,” he notes, peering closely at monitor, “are truly just horrendous. Where on earth did you find them?”

“Would you believe they cost over a hundred quid?” Merlin tells him, “Not to mention that they're designer.”

“They have _wings_ ,” Harry says, disbelieving. “The jacket's something of an eyesore, as well. I can't begin to imagine how ghastly expensive that was for something that deserves to be incinerated.”

“I think it quite suits him,” Roxy pipes up from over Merlin's other shoulder, still rubbing at the friction burns around her wrists. Her brother is beside her, holding onto her sandals and still exuding pride. Harry had been pleasantly surprised when the usually taciturn Percival had clapped his hands together, sharp and booming, and emphatically declared, _“That's my girl!”_ when Roxy hadn't hesitated to deny the existence of any Thomas Morton, and refused to give up any information on Kingsman. “I'd never be caught dead in the stuff, but he pulls it off well.” Her eyes cut to Harry, sly. “Don't you think so?”

But Eggsy's beginning to wake, confusion dragging down his features and keeping his limbs heavy even as Ywain looms, menacing. It isn't long, however, before the scraping screech of a train on the tracks makes itself known, light bending around the darkened tunnel walls, and Eggsy's mind catches up and kicks itself directly into panic.

Ywain sneers as Eggsy struggles, playing the part of villain well. “My employer's got two questions for you, Eggsy. What the _fuck_ is Kingsman? And who's Harry Hart?”

“I don't know who the fuck that is!” Eggsy shouts, still kicking and pulling at the ropes. His voice cracks, badly, under the strain. “Shit!”

“Don't give me that bullshit,” Ywain spits, taking a step closer. “We know you two are... _close_.” Harry shoots a sour look at Merlin when he hears this, but the Scot lifts his hands in supplication, a silent _'not me'_ gesture that conveys itself immediately. To his point, he looks just as softly stunned as Harry feels at having his personal relationship with Eggsy thrown into the test this way, which means only one thing: _Chester._ “Who's Harry Hart? I won't ask again.”

“I'm fucking _tellin' ya!_ ” Eggsy insists loudly, voice scraping out of his throat in a yell. “I don't know what you're on about! Cut the fucking ropes, _please!_ ”

Ywain steps away, shaking his head and making tsk-ing through his teeth in disappointment. “I just killed two of your friends who gave me the same bullshit answer.”

“Fuck!” Eggsy chokes, and looks back to where the train's approach is mere seconds away.

“Hey, Eggsy!” Ywain calls out, grinning madly. “Is Kingsman really worth dying for?”

The blinding light of the train washes out the feed, but Eggsy's screaming, disobedient, _“Fuck you!”_ comes loud and clear.

Harry's grin feels almost manic, and he's not too proud to admit that he fairly sprints from the room, pulling his overcoat tightly around him and slipping on his gloves as he enters the tunnel, Ywain passing him the knife with a wink and a murmured, “He's a good one, yours.”

“Isn't he?” Harry agrees, and closes the door behind him with a nod.

Eggsy's still hunched into as tight of a ball as he can manage, considering he's about as trussed up as a Christmas turkey, and his scrunched shut eyes don't open until after the dropped section of the tracks begins to rise. His eyes drag up the length of Harry's legs and grow relieved when they light on Harry's face. His bound appendages unfurl as he looks around in confusion before he turns his attention back to Harry.

“Congratulations,” Harry says, taming his grin. He gives the familiar praise, a compliment that's teetering on the edge of becoming an inside joke between them: “Bloody well done.”

Eggsy's still a bit short of breath when he asks, “How'd the others do?”

Harry quickly informs him of Roxy's success, and when he asks whether or not Eggsy would be interested in watching Charlie undergo the same task, the petulant and short, “Yeah, alright,” he receives is terrifically endearing.

He cuts through the ropes at Eggsy's ankles, first, and spares a brief moment to fantasise about 'accidentally' slicing into those horrid trainers. He refrains, however, and steps carefully around Eggsy's side so that he can crouch and release his right arm. His hand shoots out and immediately grabs at Harry's collar, tugging him down for a biting, urgent kiss.

“I wouldn't ever,” he whispers fiercely into the surprise-slackened moue of Harry's mouth. “I wouldn't, Harry, I wouldn't _ever_.”

Harry initiates another kiss as he leans down and in to reach the last remaining rope. “I know, darling,” he tells him. “I've never doubted you.”

Eventually, they drag themselves back into the nearby observation terminal, Eggsy sticking close to Harry and shivering occasionally at the draughty tunnels of the underground and the adrenaline crash he's no doubt experiencing. Harry indulges himself and slips his overcoat, still warm from his body, over Eggsy's shoulders. The thinly veiled disgust on Chester's face when they enter the room, close together and Eggsy in Harry's jacket, is well worth the shit he knows Merlin will give him later.

It's doubly worth it when Chester snarls in agitation when Charlie fails the test, offering up information on a silver platter just to save his own skin. The door doesn't slam behind him, but it does shut with a firm 'click'.

“Galahad,” Merlin says, swiveling around in his chair as Charlie calls out for help on-screen. “Percival, congratulations. Your candidates have reached the final stage of the testing process. As tradition allows, you now have twenty-four hours to spend with them,” and here he flicks a glance at Harry that's very nearly pained, indicating he knows _exactly_ how they're going to spend a majority of those twenty-four hours. Eggsy nudges at his side with his elbow, discreet under the cover of his coat, and Harry clears his throat lightly to dissuade his mouth from smiling.

“Eggsy,” Merlin continues, more tentative now. “You should know your father reached this point.”

Harry cuts his eyes away, a weight sinking into his stomach at the reminder. When Eggsy glances at him out of his peripheral, he's struck quite suddenly by the way that Lee and Eggsy's profiles are nearly identical. He imagines Eggsy, dead and still on top of a detonated grenade, and his hands clench into fists in his pockets. He won't allow such a thing to happen, he vows to himself, even as Merlin warns of the dangers ahead.

They're then rather succinctly dismissed, and as they turn to exit, Eggsy's hand catches at Harry's wrist, tugging it from his pocket.

Their palms press, their fingers knot; warm.

 

ooo

 

Eggsy's fingers trail over the thick, silvery scar of a knife wound, long since healed across the sinewy muscle of Harry's forearm. “What about this one?” he asks, chin perched on Harry's shoulder. Their legs are tangled together beneath the single layer of bedsheets, and their hands run over one another's bodies: gentle, soothing, stopping on scars.

“The day I defused a dirty bomb in Paris,” Harry says, lifting his arm to regard the white mark that cuts across his skin. “It nearly infected, as well. Dirty bomb, dirty knife. I've never enjoyed Paris.”

Eggsy pulls his arm up to his mouth, the angle uncomfortable, and skims a kiss over the scar. Next, he finds two small and circular scars, flat and smooth as worn down coins, high up on Harry's bicep of the same arm. “And these?” he asks, turning Harry's arm over to see the messy, sunburst webbing of the exit wounds. He mouths at them carefully, and turns Harry's arm back over.

“I was breaking up an undercover spy ring at the Pentagon,” Harry says, watching the cyclical track Eggsy's thumb takes around the bullet wounds, skimming around and over in a figure eight. “Before the method of weaving Kevlar into our suit's silk blend had been perfected. It was the first time I'd ever been shot and I can't say it was an entirely pleasant experience.”

Eggsy smiles, breathing out a single laugh, and then ducks down to nudge kisses against the flat discs of the old injuries.

He shifts, pulling their legs apart just enough that he straddles Harry's hips, looming over him briefly, eyes intent on Harry's own. He sits up and regards the toned expanse of Harry's torso, sparsely covered in greying hair, and fits his hand around the ragged, still knotty slice of a scar that curves along his ribcage. His eyebrows flick up in silent question.

“My first mission.” He angles his head the best that he can to watch the blemish disappear and reappear with every pass of Eggsy's hand over it, flesh sensitive and goose-pimpling. “Foiled the assassination of Margaret Thatcher.”

“Not everybody would thank you for that one,” Eggsy laughs, leaning down and in to tuck his face against the damp skin of Harry's neck. His hand continues its journey over Harry's body, a soothing rasp of skin on skin.

“Nobody thanked me for any of them,” he says, curling an arm around the sweaty line of Eggsy's shoulders. “That's why I have all of those newspapers in my office. Front page, celebrity nonsense, all of them. It's the nature of Kingsman that our achievements remain secret, that our wounds heal and leave behind reminders for us and us alone, so that the world may never know how close it came to peril.”

“So you've never been in the papers?” Eggsy wonders into his clavicle, fingers dipping across the delicate bone. “Not even once?”

“A gentleman's name should appear in the newspaper only three times,” Harry recites, and ticks off three fingers on his right hand. “When he's born, when he marries, and when he dies. I am— _we_ are, first and foremost, gentlemen.”

Eggsy snorts. “I been in the paper a couple-a times already, me,” he confides, shuffling closer. His breath is warm and damp against Harry's throat, and it makes him shiver. “And not for anything gentlemanly, for sure. That's me fucked, then.”

Harry sighs, mildly aggravated. “Have you ever read Hemingway?” he asks. It's a bit of a shot in the dark, but then again, Eggsy lives to surprise him. This time, however, the shuffle of his shaking head indicates otherwise. “He once said, _'There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man. True nobility is being superior to your former self.'_ If any person I've come across in all of my time as a Kingsman has the potential for that sort of true nobility, Eggsy, it's you.”

There's a smile against the skin of his neck, happy and embarrassed, if the way Eggsy nuzzles in further is any hint. “That was proper romantic,” he declares, voice muffled. “Right poetic, too.” His fingers catch on a scar, two years old, that cuts across the lower right side of Harry's abdomen. “Tell me about this one, then.”

He presses a kiss into the sweaty mess of Eggsy's hair, and proceeds to tell him about his dangerous foray into the world of appendicitis.

The soft murmuring between them, accompanied by the caressing touch of Eggsy's hand across the stretch of Harry's skin as he documents scars, lulls him into a state of half-wakefulness. His tongue loosens, words slurring as the late hour and the comfort of their embrace get the best of him. Just before slumber takes him for the night, he thinks, yearningly: _I do hope he makes it through the dog test_.

It's his one and only concern, and it follows him into sleep.

The next morning he awakes to the smell of eggs and bacon and slightly burnt toast, as well as the siren's call of coffee. That, combined with the warm line of Eggsy's body against his, makes waking up an altogether more tolerable experience than usual. Eggsy leans down to kiss him and tastes of mint, teeth smooth and clean. “I made you breakfast,” he whispers into the space between their mouths, and kisses him again.

Harry pushes himself into a seated position against the headboard, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and accepts the bed tray of food that Eggsy lays across his lap. There's only a single plate, but it's piled high with food, and there are two forks laid across the top of the tray, in addition to the four slices of darkened toast. There's a wet snuffling sound from somewhere in the vicinity of Eggsy's lap, and it's only then that Harry realises he's let JB onto the bed and perched him in the space created by the pretzel twist of his legs. He spares Eggsy a reproving look before picking up a fork and poking at surprisingly fluffy scrambled eggs. He takes a bite, and it's gloriously edible—a vast improvement over the first time he'd attempted to teach Eggsy how to cook.

“This is lovely,” he says earnestly after he's swallowed, and then takes another bite. “Thank you.”

Eggsy nods shortly, prodding at the eggs for himself, but doesn't spear any onto the prongs. He looks troubled, distant, and it doesn't sit well in Harry's stomach even on top the excellently prepared eggs. “What's the matter?”

“Did you know,” Eggsy starts, and it's as if the words have burst out of him without his express permission. “That you talk in your sleep?”

“I've been told as much as time or two,” Harry admits, feeling slightly wary. He takes another bite of eggs and wipes at his mouth with one of the paper napkins Eggsy has so thoughtfully provided. “There was a mission once, in Baltimore, where Merlin and I were forced to share a hotel room, and I was rather giddily informed the next morning that I'd had an entire conversation with him as if I were an exuberant chandelier salesman.” Eggsy's mouth twitches upwards at that, and it's a small victory. “Why do you ask?”

The smile dims, and Eggsy curls his fingers underneath the thick leather strap of JB's collar. Harry had purchased that collar during a quick weekend mission to Italy, and presented it to Eggsy with no aplomb and yet still received a marvellous, thorough blowjob in thanks. Eggsy had spent twenty minutes cooing to JB over how handsome he looked when he finally got the damn thing to sit still long enough to slip it round his jowly neck. Eggsy loves that collar, adores it simply because Harry provided it, and still he twists it in his hands until the leather creaks.

JB laps happily at the traces of food across his fingers, oblivious.

“What's the dog test?”

Whatever Harry had been expecting, that wasn't it. He sets his fork down with a hard clatter. “Pardon?”

Eggsy won't meet his eyes.

“The dog test,” he repeats, somewhere into JB's minuscule skull. “Last night, we was falling asleep, and you said...you said you hope I pass the dog test.” He drags his eyes up, and Harry notices for the first time that the whites of them are tinged pink, that his lower lids are puffy. Eggsy clutches his snorting, ungainly dog closer to his chest, and asks again: “What's the dog test?”

Harry sighs and lifts a hand to his face, scrubbing across his jaw and down his neck. _Damn it all_ , he thinks. He can't possibly hope to answer Eggsy's question in full, not without potentially disqualifying him from the process completely, so in lieu of a direct answer, he levels their gazes with a serious look and asks, “Do you trust me, Eggsy?”

“With my life,” is the immediate response. No hesitation, despite the tense set of his mouth.

“And with JB's?” Harry temporises, reaching out to brush his fingers against the silky pelt on the dog's small ears. JB turns his attention to the traces of food he can smell on Harry, slipping his tongue messily around on the skin.

Eggsy's nod of affirmation is slower to come this time, but no less firm. He's still giving Harry that wary, afraid look, muscles tensed as if he's prepared to hoist JB into his arms and run, and never look back.

Harry finds he _hates_ that look, and dislikes the idea of Eggsy disappearing from his life permanently even more. “Then trust me,” he urges, dragging his hand from JB's enthusiastic kisses to wrap slobbery fingers around Eggsy's wrist and squeeze. “And remember this: stand at least three metres away.” Eggsy frowns in confusion, opens his mouth to ask for clarification that Harry just simply cannot give. He says as much. “I can't explain it to you, Eggsy, but when the time comes, you'll understand. I would never allow either of you to come to any harm. You must believe that.”

A tense moment of silence passes. Then: “Yeah,” Eggsy breathes, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, alright.”

“Excellent,” Harry says, relieved, and releases Eggsy from his grasp. “Now, get the dog off the damn bed. This isn't a _farm._ ”

 

ooo

 

The rest of the day is a pleasure. They have lazy, rolling sex on top of the covers once breakfast is finished and the tray cleared away, Harry undulating on top of where he has Eggsy pressed, face down, into the bed. Eggsy comes not once but _twice_ , trembling uncontrollably during the second orgasm when it catches him completely by surprise. It's an experience that is so beyond gratifying that Harry can feel the difference it makes in his stride as they walk from Harry's townhome to the shop: shoulders squared and confident, a cocky lift to his knees, and the happy swing of his umbrella by his side.

“Keep walkin' like that,” Eggsy tells him when they pause at an intersection, “and everyone's gonna know you just got done fucking me.”

The woman beside them gives them both a scandalised once over and bustles down the street to the next cross-walk, shooting dark glances at them from over her shoulder. Harry lifts his hand in a wave and she huffs, head thrown back. “If you would only say such things a little louder, darling, they'll know much sooner than that.”

When they arrive at Kingsman Tailors, they're informed by a regretful Leodegrance that fitting room one is already occupied. Harry, not to be discouraged, guides Eggsy into room three instead, and presses him up against the mirrors for a thorough, tonguing kiss.

“Is that what's so special about this room, then?” Eggsy asks him breathlessly once they pull apart. “Is this where all the agents come for a snog?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Harry demurs, and nods to his left. “Pull that hook, there.”

Eggsy does as he's told, and when the wall swings open, his excitement is palpable. He looks like Christmas has come early and St. Nicholas has piled the space beneath his Christmas tree high with close range weapons and assault rifles. Eggsy's testing scores with guns and hand to hand combat are, as ever, truly remarkable, and he's sure to inform him as such. He gets a cheeky wink in response as Eggsy's trying on a pair of Oxfords, nearly identical to Harry's own.

Harry takes care to show Eggsy his very favourite toy, lets him examine the pen closely for himself after a careful demonstration of how it works. His earnest excitement and pure interest is enough to make up for the fact that the little bugger tries to lift one of the grenades. Harry isn't sure what he's more offended by: that Eggsy would attempt to steal from the shop, or that he thinks Harry wouldn't notice.

They exit the weapons room just in time to witness a terse, aggressively staged conversation between Bors and one Richmond Valentine, the latter clad in coattails. A petite young woman hovers nearby, clad in all black and armed with the deadliest looking prosthetic legs Harry has ever seen. He wonders if she requires a permit to openly carry weapons, but quickly presumes most authorities are too clever or weak willed enough not to ask.

A thick, uncomfortable silence descends upon the shop, so Harry steps forward with his most genial smile. “Terribly sorry,” he says, interrupting the tense moment. The attention of all three swivels towards him, and the dark haired young lady's posture gets even more defensive at the introduction of an unknown interloper. “I couldn't help but overhear that you're attending Ascot?” Valentine gives him an appraising look but nods. “It's only that, traditionally, Ascot requires top hat. I might suggest Lock and Co. Hatters. St. James's.”

Valentine's face loses a bit of its suspicion and grows warmer in the face of seemingly friendly advice from a well meaning stranger. “'Lox' as in smoked fish?” he asks.

“As in, 'locked up',” Bors snaps, and just like that any modicum of ease in the room evaporates.

Harry forces himself to laugh and is impressed when it doesn't come out sounding terribly forced. “Not quite the analogy I would have used,” he confides to Valentine with a raise of his brows, as if to wordlessly lament the lack of social niceties Bors is currently displaying. “If you'll excuse me, however, I really must get my new valet measured for a suit.” He places a hand at the small of Eggsy's back and ushers him into fitting room one with a final nod farewell to the rest of the room. The door clicks shut and the lock slides into place, confining them to the sound proof room.

“What the fuck,” Eggsy whispers harshly, unaware that no one on the other side of the door can possibly hear them. “Did you see her legs? Fucking sick, them. I had a mate from the Marines come back from Iraq with blades, but they weren't nothing like that.”

“Bors does seem to have his hands quite full with the both of them,” Harry agrees, mentally reminding himself to have a conversation with Arthur about it, and picks up a measuring tape and pincushion. “Now, do stand still, Eggsy, I wouldn't want to accidentally draw any blood.”

“You gonna take my inseam?” Eggsy leers when Harry kneels before him.

The first jab of a pin sinks into the flesh of Eggsy's hip and he flinches back with a hiss. “Terribly sorry,” Harry says, not sorry in the least. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” Eggsy sulks into the face of his own reflection. “Didn't say a thing.”

He remains blessedly still for the duration of the measurement, still scowling a little by the end of it, so Harry rewards him with a kiss to the forehead. Eggsy's face doesn't smooth out, exactly, but he leans into Harry's body all the same.

 

ooo

 

Harry doesn't get word about the implementation of the dog test until he comes across Percival pacing in the halls, mouth a hard line and fingers tapping against his chin. “Are you quite alright, Thomas?” he asks, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder.

When he receives an answer and an explanation for the younger agent's nerves, irritation wells up inside. Of course Chester would keep him in the dark on this, he thinks viciously, striding to the part of the manor where Arthur's office resides. The man's vindictive streak was a mile wide and the grudge he was holding over Harry's romantic entanglement with Eggsy would put some historic international disputes to shame.

He's just turned the corner to the hall that contains the door to Arthur's office when he hears the first muffled pop of a gunshot. Ten strides down the hall, he hears the second, and nearly wilts with relief.

The very door he's been heading towards crashes open and Eggsy stumbles out, JB clutched in the circle of his arms, trembling violently but clearly alive and well. His eyes light on Harry and turn hard. “What the _fuck_ ,” he spits, and very nearly runs past him in the hall. Harry gives chase. He doesn't need to go far, just around the corner, before he finds Eggsy collapsed and huddled against the wall, a squirming JB attempting to escape his embrace.

“That was horrible,” Eggsy says when Harry comes to a stop in front of him. His voice is thick and choked with tears. “What the fuck is wrong with all of you?”

“Limits must be tested,” Harry recites, but the words stick in his throat, unpleasant. “A Kingsman only condones the risking of a life to save another.”

The laugh that rattles out of Eggsy is a wretched, gasping fallacy of amusement. “The fuck does that have to do with shooting a gun at a fucking dog?” he demands, tone shrill. “Fucking mental. You...you're tellin' me you shot a dog to get a fucking _job?_ ”

“I did,” Harry affirms, “As much as you have just done. And then I took Mr. Pickle home, and proceeded to care for him for the next eleven years until he died of pancreatitis.”

Eggsy's face grows, if possible, even more stricken. It's very nearly humourous. “You named your dog Mr. Pickle?”

“And had him stuffed,” Harry says. “He's in the downstairs toilet, on a mantle. I'll show him to you the next time you come around.”

“You're so fucking _weird_ ,” Eggsy moans, dropping his head back against the wood paneling of the wall with a heavy 'thunk.' Harry hums in agreement, well aware of his own quirks and how far they extend into both taxidermy and his extensive entomological collection. He owns four tea kettles, as well, for purely aesthetic reasons. Still, he can't deny that it stings a bit, hearing Eggsy's judgement. 

Silence descends upon them before Harry deems him calm enough to risk asking, “So...how angry was Arthur that you passed the test?”

Eggsy snorts. “Raging. Absolutely fucked off that I didn't choke. But...I remembered what you said. 'Bout my life, and JB's. Three metres.” He makes a gun with the fingers on his right hand, thumb twitching down. “Bang.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't give you more warning,” Harry soothes, and helps JB to escape Eggsy's smothering embrace, getting a lick on his chin for his trouble. “I am immensely gratified that you saw fit to trust me, however.”

“How could I not?” Eggsy asks, voice quiet and entirely too serious. He regards Harry with those mossy eyes, the upper lids drooping into a downward slant. He looks pale, too thin and tired. Harry longs to have him wrapped up in his quilts, nestled in the confines of Harry's bed.

Abruptly, he realises he _can_ have just that, if only for a few more hours.

“Come, now,” he urges, pulling Eggsy to his feet and tucking him beneath his arm. JB trots along beside them, sticking close as Harry guides them through the halls and out the front of the manor. “You need rest.”

He proceeds to spend the remainder of the afternoon doting on Eggsy without hesitation or giving any thought to shame, ordering in his favourite meal from the Chinese shop down the street, keeping him hydrated by constantly refilling his glass of ice water, and tucking Eggsy to his chest and watching that infernal 'Family Guy' cartoon of which he is inexplicably so fond.

He even lets JB perch on the foot of his bed, and if that isn't love, Harry doesn't know what _is_.

The tentative, precious and precarious bubble of peace that he's constructed around them is quickly shattered after a few hours when his tablet beeps with a message notification. It's from Arthur, which is enough to put a damper on Harry's mood by itself, but the fact that he's requesting Eggsy's presence, without any mention of wanting Harry there as well, is more than a little concerning. It's unprecedented, unorthodox, and so very out of character that Harry's hackles rise and he's immediately on guard. He finds his mobile, lost in the veritable nest of blankets Eggsy's created, and fires off a quick text to Percival, asking if he's received the same bizarre request.

Eggsy's still frowning down at the tablet in his lap when Percival texts back in the negative.

Harry tosses his phone to the side and pulls the tablet away from Eggsy, dragging his attention upward. “I'm coming with you,” he says firmly. “Something isn't right. Arthur's not one to break tradition, and for him to invite you to the Round Table without yet being a Kingsman is...”

“Suspicious as fuck?” Eggsy guesses, still wary and frowning, tone dry.

“Quite,” Harry agrees, and hefts himself out of the comfort of his bed so that he can begin slipping on his socks and shoes. “All the same, it's best not to keep him waiting.”

Eggsy lets out a sigh and slowly emerges from his huddled mound of blankets, hands pressing down his hair in an attempt to flatten down the spots where Harry had been raking his fingers. His movements are sluggish, hesitant, and he reaches out every now and then to rub his fingers against JB's slumbering form. Harry regards him from the mirror as he fixes his tie. “Eggsy,” he says, “Trust me.”

Eggsy deflates, nerves seeping out of him. “Yeah,” he agrees, and starts moving a hair faster, slipping back into his boiler suit and lacing up his boots.

They leave JB asleep on Harry's bed, Eggsy none too eager to bring him back into Chester King's vicinity, and exit the house to find Ector waiting in a Kingsman taxi on the street. Harry's unease grows as they enter the cab, becoming heavier in his gut as they pass through the familiar lights and roundabouts on the journey to the shop. By the time they pull onto Savile Row, he feels fairly made of lead, weighted down by his suspicion.

He keeps a hand on Eggsy's back, slipping from his shoulder blades, down the dip of his spine, to the small of it and back again, as they enter the empty shop and lock the door behind them. Eggsy, to his credit, seems only slightly tensed around his mouth and eyes, lips thin and brows drawn, but otherwise strides forward with his usual swagger. He's doing a far better job than Harry is of pretending nothing is amiss, even if his steps do stutter when they come upon the open door to the dining room.

Chester King sits at the head of the table, decanter of brandy and two glasses set before him. His genial look sours minutely when he sees Harry standing at Eggsy's side, but swiftly grins, warm and friendly. “Galahad,” he greets. “I see you've taken it upon yourself to ensure that young Eggsy finds his way. Eggsy, have a seat, my boy,” he says, and gestures to the chair that Harry usually occupies. With a sideways glance at Harry over the arc of his shoulder, Eggsy shuffles forward slowly and takes a seat, spine unnaturally straight. Chester turns that knife-edged smile Harry's way once more. Much appreciated, but I would like to speak with him alone.” There's a thinly veiled 'fuck off' hidden in there, somewhere, but Harry refuses to cede to it.

“Nonsense,” he demurs with a lift of one shoulder. “I have no other pressing matters that require my attention this evening, and I admit I am rather curious about what new tradition you've decided to implement here.”

Chester's smile grows marginally more brittle. “Well,” he says, and taps his fingers on the table. “Come in, I suppose.”

Harry inclines his head in a nod and comes around to his other side, sliding into Percival's seat and crossing his legs, fingers curled together atop his knee.

“Now then,” Chester says, and angles his body so that he effectively shuts Harry out of his interaction with Eggsy. “Given that your own father reached this stage of his testing process before he bravely sacrificed himself for Galahad, Merlin, and the previous Lancelot, I thought it would be fitting for you and I to share a toast to his memory.” He gestures to the crystal decanter. “This is an 1815 Napoleonic brandy, and we only drink it when we lose a Kingsman.” He gently lifts the glass that's nestled on the tray next to the liquor itself and places it upon the table next to the other, so that it's closer to Eggsy. He doesn't bother getting up to get a third glass, or even to offer one to Harry.

Harry flicks his gaze over to Eggsy just as Chester leans over to lift the decanter. Eggsy's eyes suddenly grow sharp, focused, fixed somewhere on the side of Chester's head. He looks at Harry and inhales sharply, eyes bright with fear and no small amount of anger, and lifts his fingers to scratch at his neck.

No, Harry realises, when Eggsy runs two fingers gently in a line behind his ear and looks meaningfully back to Chester. Not scratching.

Betrayal sits just as heavily as the suspicion of it.

Chester lifts the decanter and pours brandy into the two glasses, crystal clinking as his weakening hands shake. “I recall your father mentioning you often. How well you were doing in primary school. And though you're not yet Kingsman, I think on this occasion, it's acceptable for us to bend the rules a little.” He sets the decanter back onto its silver tray with a 'clank,' and Eggsy suddenly darts forward in his chair, gesturing to the paintings mounted on the wall.

“Are these all Kingsmen?” he asks, earnest and inquiring. Chester falters and twists in his chair to gaze at the portraits in question, grandiose and carefully illuminated on the wall beside them. Harry turns to look, as well, but is sure to keep Eggsy in his peripheral.

Which is why he sees the fast, easy way that Eggsy reaches out and switches their glasses of brandy around, and assumes a thoughtful perch once he's finished.

“Yes,” Chester says impatiently, and turns back around. “They're founder members. Now, I want you to join me in a toast.” He hands the glass on the right to Eggsy, motion deliberate. He doesn't seem to notice the way that the brandy is shifting in the crystal before he's even touched it. They lift their glasses. “To your father,” Chester toasts, and they clink together. Harry inclines his head in remembrance, since he's no brandy of his own to drink.

Eggsy tosses back the drink, eyes still hot, and slumps over in his chair when the last dregs of it have passed between his lips. “Harry says you don't like to break rules, Arthur,” he points out, combative.

Chester turns briefly to look at Harry, who raises his eyebrows in easy agreement. “Not in my tenure as a Kingsman,” he collaborates.

“Why now?” Eggsy demands, fingers lacing in his lap.

Chester's teeth bare. “You're very good, Eggsy. Perhaps you'll make an excellent Kingsman, yet. Provided, of course, that we can see eye to eye on certain...political matters.” He slips a hand forward and unearths a familiar fountain pen, formerly hidden by the lip of the silver tray. With a flick of his finger, he primes the weapon, and Eggsy's jaw is a hard, structured line of anger. “Can you guess,” Chester asks, turning the pen around in his fingers, “what this is?”

Harry forces himself to remain still, but his mind is racing with all of the different tactical manoeuvres he can take to get the pen out of Arthur's hand, get Arthur away from Eggsy, and get Eggsy to hospital as quickly as possible.

But Eggsy doesn't look worried. Eggsy looks downright _pissed_ , as if he'd figured out what was coming, and—

The switching glasses, Harry realises, and relaxes only minutely. The clench of his fingers leave creases in his trousers.

“I don't have to. Harry showed me. You click it, I die,” Eggsy bites, impetuous, and nods down to his empty snifter. “I thought that brandy tasted a bit shit.”

Chester chuckles and looks to Harry. “Bravo,” he commends, tone not the least bit sarcastic. “He's a clever one.”

“Valentine got to you,” is how Harry chooses to respond. The scar on the older man's neck had been apparent when he'd twisted towards the wall. “Somehow. The man's going around, doing God knows what with his not inconsiderable resources, has _killed_ a man through cranial explosives, and you allow him to put an implant in your neck.”

“The man is a visionary,” Chester informs them, calm as ever. “Once he explained his plan, I understood.” He pulls his mobile out from his jacket, fingers tapping at the screen, and gestures towards the mirror. “Allow me to show you something.”

The mirror flickers to life, and what follows is the most horrifying five minutes of surveillance footage that Harry's ever seen.

A preacher, spewing vitriol and hate, sweating condemnation out onto the masses. Bors, attempting to take his leave and being stopped by a mousy bigot of a woman, chasing him through the aisle and declaring him devil fodder until he turns around and, very suddenly, shoots her straight between the eyes.

The massacre is hard for even Harry to watch, and he can hear Eggsy's choked off gasps of horror from behind him.

Bors leaves a sea of carnage in his wake, and when he exits the church, shaking and blood soaked, Richmond Valentine gleefully explains about centres of aggression in the brain, and promptly shoots him in the head.

Chester turns the mirror off as the flatline of Jon's vitals creep across the screen, and proceeds to explain the most maddeningly psychotic logic of all time, justifying mass genocide. He waxes poetic about viruses and hosts, and the need for humanity to be culled before the Earth is ruined beyond all repair. The careful reduction of the population, he says, is the only hope. “If we don't do something,” he insists, “nature will.”

“You're talking about millions of lives,” Harry says, voice strangling in his throat. He feels sick to his stomach in the wake of his colleague's death, in the face of his own employer's cut-throat deception. “Perhaps billions. What possible justification is there for a holocaust?”

“Sometimes,” and he's still infuriatingly calm, so confident in this sheer insanity that Harry has to look away. “A culling is the only way to ensure that this species survives. History will see Valentine as the man who saved humanity from extinction.”

“They'll see him as a fucking psycho,” Eggsy hisses, leaning forward in his seat and bracing his elbows on the table. “Can't you see that? This ain't right! He gets to pick and choose who gets culled, does he? All his rich mates, they get to live, and anyone he thinks is worth saving, he's keeping them safe. Whether they agree with him or not.”

“And you, Eggsy,” Chester agrees, and Harry's attention is brought snapping back into the conversation. “And you, Galahad,” he adds, gesturing between them both with the primed fountain pen. “I've known you long enough, Harry, to know that the ethics of such an action would drive you away. However, I have a great fondness for you. Not to mention that you're an Earl, and more than deserving of a place in the new world. I couldn't figure out a way to convince you to join me, but then it occurred, quite suddenly.”

He looks back at Eggsy pointedly, still twirling the pen between his fingers, and the smile he gives Harry when he turns back is sharp and nearly evil. “Join me,” he cajoles. “Or Eggsy dies.”

Silence descends upon them.

Harry meets Eggsy's gaze across the table. His eyes are fierce and wet, determination making them bright. His head shifts, only a little, into a nod.

_Do you trust me?_

_**With my life.** _

“With all due respect, Chester,” Harry says, not once taking his eyes off of Eggsy. “Go fuck yourself.”

Any trace of kindness drops off of Chester's face and curdles into a sneer. “So be it,” he hisses, and depresses the pen's trigger. A moment passes, and Eggsy looks down at his own stomach, considering.

A convulsion clenches Arthur's body inward as the poison takes hold, and Eggsy folds himself back into his chair, lifting the snifter and turning it in the dim lighting of the room. “The problem with us common types is that we're light fingered.” He sets the glass down gently. “Kingsman's taught me a lot. Harry's taught me even more. But sleight of hand?” He tsks, shaking his head. “I had that down already.”

Chester King falls on his own sword not thirty seconds later, frothing at the mouth and cursing Eggsy to hell and back even as poison simmers through his blood and his eyes roll up into his head. They regard each other over the slumped corpse, both breathing heavily now that they need not be concerned with showing their fear. Eggsy abruptly begins to roll up the sleeves of his suits and reaches for the pen, uncapping it.

“What are you—” Harry begins, and Eggsy stabs into Chester's neck with the fountain tip, splitting open his scar. “—doing,” he finishes with a grimace. Eggsy extracts a microchip, long wires dangling down, and holds it up with bloodstained fingers.

“We need to go to Merlin,” he says, meeting Harry's eyes and curling the chip into his fist. He picks up Chester's mobile as it trills, and turns it around so that Harry can see the countdown and coordinates displayed on the screen. “And I need to call my mum.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many people were afraid i was going to kill harry. oh, ye of little faith. it's almost like you're used to me writing nothing but crippling angst...
> 
> i'm hoping to have the final chapter finished and posted by saturday night but i'm not in the most stellar mental or emotional state right now so i'm afraid i can't guarantee anything other than within a week. i'm sorry.


	3. three

Eggsy looks far more offended by the way Roxy has a gun leveled at his head than he did when Chester King was using his dying breath to condemn him. Harry understands the feeling, however, because the expression of distrust Merlin wears when they step off of the bullet train is a sting that Harry feels keenly.

Wordlessly, he hands over the blood stained microchip, Chester's mobile, and his own glasses so that Merlin can access his private transmission feed.

Roxy keeps her gun on them until the Chester on the monitor delivers his ultimatum and does his best to murder Eggsy, at which point the weapon drops down to her side, thumb quickly pressing at the safety. Merlin drops his head into his hands and his glasses onto the terminal's desk, taking a moment to gather his wits as Roxy leans into Eggsy with an apology.

“It's all good,” Harry hears Eggsy reassure on a whisper, forgiveness granted easily. “I woulda shot me straight away, if I was you. No worries, bruv.”

“What do we do now?” Roxy wonders, and she sounds shaken, laying a hand on the back of Merlin's chair as if to keep herself upright.

Merlin turns around in his chair and, almost without thought, folds his much larger hand over the unhappy clench of her own. Harry catches Eggsy's raised eyebrows at the gesture, the most overtly he's seen either of them display any sort of closeness. Harry wonders if Eggsy had even realised what was going on just beneath his nose, if he'd never seen the way that Merlin and Roxy's eyes would catch and hold across the room.

Then again, Eggsy's never seemed to have eyes for anyone other than Harry, so his oversight is understandable.

“God knows who's in Valentine's pocket and who's not,” Merlin tells them, eyes darting about as he thinks carefully. “We have no choice. We are gonna have to deal with this ourselves.”

The jet is easily commandeered, since Merlin controls every single override to the security systems, and he and Harry switch responsibilities every hour between piloting and going over their plan of attack with Eggsy and Roxy. Eggsy curls into Harry's side whenever he gets the chance, desperate for contact in the wake of his own attempted murder and the very real possibility that one of them may not make it out of Valentine's bunker alive.

He's practically in Harry's lap when Merlin emerges from the front of the p lane, heavy black equipment bag in hand, and drops it on the floor between Roxy and Eggsy. The zip is open, letting a brightly painted yellow arm jut out. Eggsy leans over to fiddle with the joystick. “What the fuck is this?”

Harry takes it from him and lays it across Eggsy's lap so that he can examine it more closely. “I'll be quite honest, I've no idea.”

Merlin takes a seat at his computer terminal but faces them, nudging at the monstrous bag with his foot. “What you're playing with is a prototype personal transatmospheric vehicle.”

“No,” Harry says, aghast. “Not from that damned Star Wars program.”

Eggsy perks up a bit at that. “What, like, with Han and Chewie and everything?” His lips twitch, but he keeps his face schooled into the picture of innocence.

Merlin's eyes roll upwards in a silent prayer for strength, and Harry smothers his smirk against the fabric of Eggsy's shoulder. “No,” the Scot says tersely, patience thin. “As part of Reagan's Star Wars project. Fairly basic, but it should work.”

“For?” Roxy questions, leaning over to take a look at the suit for herself.

“We're going to break the chain in Richmond Valentine's satellites. Stop the signal from being broadcast. It will take him an hour, at the very least, to reroute the chain, which means that you and Harry, Eggsy, will have enough time to get me into Valentine's mainframe and do what you can to destroy his main computer terminal. We cannae take any risks with this man, and even if he has a back up system, it will still buy us some time to stop him while he tries to reach it. Is that understood?”

Eggsy and Roxy nod their assent. Merlin takes a moment to look at Roxy, face softening and voice gentle when he informs her that she's going to be the one to take out the satellite and to slip into her HALO suit. She swallows audibly but gives him a terse nod, disappearing into the bathroom. Once she's out of sight, he twists back around to his computer and begins prodding at the chip Eggsy had extracted from Chester's neck.

“What about me?” Eggsy asks, and looks down at himself. There are bloodstains on his tartan jumpsuit, Harry notices. “I don't think they'll let me in like this, y'know what I mean?”

“That, my dear,” Harry pats at his hip and shifts Eggsy off of his legs so that he can stand and cross to the small closet next to the cockpit. He opens the door and removes a heavy, leather garment bag from within, one that he'd been sure to quickly grab from the shop before they'd boarded the train to HQ. “Is not something you need worry about.”

Eggsy takes the bag from him with care and unzips it just enough that he can brush his fingers over the thick fabric. “Is this gonna fit me?”

“A bespoke suit,” Merlin says sagely from where he's peering at the chip from beneath a magnifying glass, “always fits.”

“We're just lucky you had one made before all of this nonsense occurred,” Harry agrees, settling in beside Eggsy on the sofa once more. A light flicks on above the cockpit and Merlin lets out a quiet oath, abandoning his examination of the chip and shutting himself away in the pilot's seat so he can begin their descent into the open field where Roxy will take flight.

The door has no sooner been shut than Eggsy launches himself forward, straddling Harry's lap and seating himself there for a kiss that forces Harry's neck back with its ferocity. He cradles Eggsy's hips in his hands, pulling him close, and opens his mouth to the wet swipe of his tongue. Eggsy wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders, around his neck, and lists his body to the side until they topple over, the younger man beneath him and scrabbling to get Harry fully between his legs.

Their mouths don't break apart once, slick and slipping together in deep, pulling kisses, until the plane begins to descend in earnest. Harry withdraws from Eggsy with no small amount of regret, shushing him gently when he makes small noises of protest. “There will be plenty of time for that later,” he says, sure and firm. “I've been in spots of trouble worse than this and without backup, besides. And you will return to me, alive and whole, or I shall be very cross with you.”

“Yeah,” is the hoarse response he gets as he sits back, Eggsy following him upwards. “Same to you, y'know? Christ, Harry, I dunno what I'd do if you died.”

“Nor I, you,” he says, and cups Eggsy's face between his palms, admiring the way the sharp bones of his jaw settle into the cup of his hands. “So let's not worry ourselves over it, and focus instead on the mission at hand.”

He nods, still looking scared, and tilts his mouth to the side so he can burnish a kiss against the thin skin of Harry's wrist. He slips a hand back behind Harry's neck and tugs him forward, foreheads knocking together. He keeps him there, eyes shut, and breathes slowly, easily, until the rhythm of their breathing is the same.

The plane jostles to a halt, wheels skimming on the unforgiving snowy plain, and ultimately drags them apart. It's just as well, since Roxy emerges from the toilet not long after, clad in her HALO suit and helmet and looking pale under her sheer determination.

Both Eggsy and Merlin seem reluctant to send her to the edge of the atmosphere, Eggsy clutching at her hands with his own and Merlin going as far to brush a tender, lingering kiss to the side of her helmet that Roxy tilts her head into, despite the barrier between them. The balloons inflate soon enough, Eggsy rising on his toes to keep a hold of her as long as possible, and she begins her ascent.

Eggsy watches through the small window of the plane until she disappears completely from their view, and then slumps into the cushions of the leather recliner. Harry gives his knee a consoling pat from his seat in the other chair. “Go get dressed,” he instructs, gesturing towards the bag with his suit. “I can't have my valet looking like a vagabond.” Eggsy rolls his eyes but does as he's told, disappearing into the back, bag in hand.

While he changes, Harry occupies himself by leaning over Merlin's shoulder, peering down at the now clean implant. “What have we got?”

“It seems,” Merlin mutters, holding the chip between a pair of forceps. “That it emits some sort of counter signal to the SIM cards, ensuring that the wearer remains unaffected by the waves that trigger the aggression centres in the brain. I'm fairly confident, however, that what Valentine neglected to tell his chosen few is that it also grants him the ability to super heat their soft tissue at his command.”

“Professor Arnold,” Harry says, understanding dawning on him.

“Quite,” Merlin agrees, glancing at him over his shoulder. “A discretion clause, no doubt. He's able to keep his friends close and and their graveyards even closer. Probably to ensure no one ran their mouth to the wrong people before he started his countdown.”

“Can we use it in any way to our advantage?”

Merlin sighs, setting the forceps and the chip down onto his desk so that he can pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately not,” he admits. “At least, not until Eggsy or yourself gets me access to his mainframe. Worst comes to worst, we can detonate and cause quite the mess.”

Harry lets out a non-committal hum, mulling over that option in his mind. There's the quiet 'snickt' of the bathroom door opening, and when he straightens and turns to where Eggsy stands in the back of the plane, his breath catches alarmingly in his throat.

Eggsy fiddles with his cuff links and spreads his hands to the side, glancing down at himself. “Well?” he asks nervously, looking at them both from over the rim of his Kingsman issued glasses.

Merlin gives a low, appreciative whistle. “Looking good, Eggsy,” he praises, tilting his head in approval.

Eggsy damn near preens under his attention and smooths down his lapels. “Feeling good, Merlin,” he says, affecting a perfectly posh accent that doesn't suit him in the slightest.

“Merlin,” Harry says calmly, running his eyes from the coif of Eggsy's hair down to his Oxfords and back again. “If you value our friendship whatsoever, I would recommend you avert your eyes immediately, lest you see something you most assuredly don't wish to.” And then he charges forward, pressing Eggsy into the wall beside the bathroom and gathering him into his arms for a crushing kiss, mouths wet and open.

“You look stunning,” he whispers into the spit-slick sheen of Eggsy's lips, chasing the words down with another searching kiss. His hand slips down Eggsy's back to palm at the swell of his arse, fingers digging into the flesh. “My God, I could just fuck you right here.”

“Please don't!” Merlin calls from the recesses of the cockpit, sounding strangled. “Or I swear to you, I will crash this plane, and I will do so happily.”

Neither of them heed his plea, Harry's hand smoothing down the curve of Eggsy's bum, dragging a line around the outside of his thigh before curling in and cupping the bulge that's beginning to form beneath his button fly. His palm rubs in while his fingers press, groping, into the space between his bollocks and arse. Eggsy inhales sharply and rises to the tip of his toes, body arcing away from the wall and into Harry's, aligning their bodies. Harry pushes back and grasps at Eggsy's thigh with the hand that isn't working his erection into a full, hard line, and lifts it up against his waist. He grinds his own hardness into the space it creates, longing to pull the trousers down just enough to give him access so that he can pull Eggsy into his throat and suck him to ruin.

Eggsy whimpers all the same and gives his mouth over to Harry for another searing kiss before the plane veers quite suddenly to the left, sending them sprawling apart.

“So sorry,” comes Merlin's voice, full of false apology and quite cheerful underneath the lie. “My hand slipped.”

Harry dips in for one last kiss, just to spite his friend, and urges himself away from the gorgeous figure that Eggsy cuts in his suit.

It isn't much longer before they begin their descent into Valentine's heavily armed fortress, alerts sounding inside the plane for a moment as missiles lock onto their position. They fade away soon enough, when permission is granted, and Merlin guides the plane into the tunnel with ease. When they finally shudder to a stop, engines whirring as they die down, Merlin turns to them from the pilot's chair. “Gentlemen,” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “Good luck.”

The stairs lower, and the charade begins.

They keep a firm distance between them as they meander through the halls of the bunker, and Eggsy speaks only when spoken to, tone crisp and polite in that way Harry finds he hates coming from his normally effusive mouth. Harry, for all his moderate discomfort with the way Eggsy is being treated, doesn't glance back towards him even once.

Valentine's assistant leads them into a large, cavernous room, disco balls hanging from the ceiling and a dance floor in the centre of a lounge area. Harry recognises, much to his shame, several dignitaries and a few old family friends, sipping on champagne and smiling as if they aren't condemning millions of people to their deaths. High above them, surrounded by enormous glass walls, Valentine lounges in front of his desk, conversing idly with the dark haired woman he'd been with at the shop.

He slips off his overcoat and steps to Eggsy under the guise of handing the heavy jacket to him, murmuring, “We need to split up. See if you can find a way into Valentine's office while I search for a computer.”

“ _Excellent idea, Galahad,”_ sounds Merlin's brogue over the comms in his glasses. _“I need the both of you to hurry. Roxy's balloons won't last much longer, and I need access to the server now.”_

Eggsy dips his head and shoulders into a small bow, keeping up his appearance as Harry's valet and using the motion to acknowledge Merlin's orders since he's keeping himself quiet. Carefully, meeting Harry's eyes for the first time since they landed, he folds the coat over the bend of his arm. His gaze lingers too long, as if he's drinking Harry in for what may be the last time, and then he turns and disappears down the hall, ostensibly to find a coat room.

Harry orders a Martini, made the way a gentleman prefers (gin, not vodka, stirred and never shaken), and sets about making a circuit round the room, eyes sharp and searching for a laptop or tablet he can use to his advantage. Eventually, he finds an older gentleman, tapping away at a laptop keyboard with two fingers, and the HUD display on his glasses quickly informs him that it's the Swedish Prime Minister. “Terribly sorry,” he says, leaning into the man's booth, keeping his tone light and smile friendly. He lifts up his wrist, indicating towards his watch with his Martini. “Do you have the time? It's rather embarrassing, you see, I seem to have forgotten to set my watch by the proper time.”

He gets a pleasant, commiserating chuckle in response, and the second the man looks down, Harry fires a dart into his neck and gracelessly shoves him aside, plugging in the USB keyring that will give Merlin full access to Valentine's servers. He swiftly types in a series of access codes, watches the progress bar with no small amount of anticipation, and quickly shuts the laptop when it reaches one hundred percent.

He stands from the booth, smoothing down his suit before picking up his drink, and turns.

Charlie Hesketh stands behind him, looking as snotty and furious as ever, a steak knife clutched in his hand. “I knew it was you!” he hisses in triumph, eyes very nearly crazed.

“What on earth are you going to do with that?” Harry asks, amusement creeping into his voice as he eyes the knife. Hand to hand, close-weapon combat hadn't been high on Charlie's particular skill set, and Harry has the utmost confidence in himself and his own ability to both disarm and incapacitate the wild-eyed young man.

Charlie hesitates for a brief moment before a nasty light sparks up in his eyes. “So, where's your rough little fucktoy, then?” he sneers. “Is he here with you or is he somewhere, sucking off another geriatric cock? I heard him tell that  _ bitch  _ Roxy about how his step-father used to 'force' him into being a rent boy.” He gives a hard, vicious laugh. “I doubt there was much force involved, he was practically gagging for it—”

Harry hasn't spent nearly fifty years on this planet without gaining an intimate knowledge of his own short temper. He's all too aware of his own shortcoming in that regard; quick to take offence, and even quicker to spit acidic vitriol in retribution, pinpointing his target's weaknesses and jabbing at them with verbal barbs until he reduces them to tears or forces them to attack. It's a problem he's been working on getting under control since he forcibly underwent an anger management course at Chester's behest.

Then again, he had broken a man's jaw for insulting his favourite tie, so in that case the punishment was, perhaps, justified.

Now, though, he doesn't bother mincing words. His attention narrows down to the glinting, sharp blade in Charlie's hand, and lunges forward between one breath and the next, twisting the little prick's arm until the bones of his wrist pop out of place and he lets out a strangled shriek.

The steak knife clatters to the ground, and Harry kicks it out of reach. “Terribly sorry,' he apologises, tone cool. “But perhaps now you'll let this be a lesson to you.” He leans in, breath brushing against the heavily cologne-doused skin of Charlie's neck. “If you ever so much as look at Eggsy strangely, even once in the rest of your life, I will make all of your remaining days on this earth horribly, uncomfortably miserable.”

He presses his thumb into the contact point at the back of the signet ring and presses it into Charlie's neck, shocking him into unconsciousness. Harry catches him in his arms, smiling pleasantly at the shocked looking pair of bystanders who turn around at the sight of the slumping body.

“Indulged in too much champagne,” he says, grinning sheepishly at them. “Too excited for the festivities, you see.”

The couple continue to look at him askance but give him wary, forced smiles and quickly step away. Harry's smile drops and he tosses Charlie into the booth, on top of the Swedish PM, without any semblance of care.

He presses his fingers to the corner of his glasses frames, and when the sound kicks in he can hear the frantic, strangled sound of Roxy screaming. “What's happening?” he whispers sharply, leaning into the booth to pluck the USB drive out of the computer. It's been long enough that it's safe to remove it completely, Merlin's hacking abilities the best in the country—he's no doubt fought his way through all of Valentine's security measures and infiltrated his main server by this point.

“ _The balloons burst,”_ Merlin informs him tersely over the muted sounds of panic. _“The missiles been launched, impact in twenty seconds, but...”_ He exhales, shaky. _“She's been given something of a fright.”_

They're interrupted by the muffled rat-a-tat pop of gunfire, and silence descends upon the room as a whole, party guests glancing around with no small amount of fear, bodies hunching in defensively. Harry turns his attention to the massive glass-walled office where Valentine has made himself comfortable, and sees the young woman with prostheses gesture at Valentine to crouch behind his desk and stay put. She doesn't get much farther, herself, than spinning back towards the door before the room begins to fill with thick, rolling plumes of grey smoke.

_ Eggsy _ , Harry thinks, almost giddily, and thinks of the smoke bombs carefully compacted into their cuff links. The muted sound of an automatic weapon being fired are louder, closer, sparking gunpowder creating quick flashes of light through the wall of smoke and thick glass walls. The office door is clearly open at this point, smoke beginning to filter out, and the figure of Valentine's second in command is somewhat visible, slumped into a heap on the floor. Valentine appears to be screaming, and though Harry can't hear the anguish he can certainly see it in the hunched line of his back, in the stretched wide gape of his mouth.

Harry steps forward and heaves himself over the railing, knees cursing him when he lands on the unforgiving stone floor. The startled, fearful guests clear easily from his path, giving him a wide berth where he can rush between them and cut his way to the door just below and to the right of Valentine's office.

He runs into a white clad guard almost immediately, coming at him gun-first, so Harry grabs one of the full bottles of champagne that stand in ice buckets all around the room and hurls it at the man's head. The impact shatters his nose and probably an eye socket with a sickening crunch and he goes down, listless and unconscious. Harry crouches down as he runs past and over the body, stealing his weapon for himself.

He bursts through the door and skids to his left, and feels an unsettlingly large surge of pride towards Eggsy when he sees how the tunnel is completely  _ littered _ with bodies, some merely knocked out and some having suffered a far worse fate, blood puddling around their bodies. He sprints over the sprawl of them, careful not to lose his footing in the slick mess they're spreading out across the floor, darting through the maze of doors and thin corridors, Merlin's brusque instructions guiding him around ever corner and through every door.

Eggsy, it turns out, left quite the path of destruction in his wake, and Harry is only required to incapacitate two dozen or so guards in his sprint up to Valentine's office. The largest mass, a group of six, rounds a corner and immediately opens fire on Harry, who lifts his arms to catch the bullets in the fabric of his suit before dropping to a slide and twisting, leg kicking out and sweeping three of them off of their feet. He stands in the same fluid movement and hooks an arm around one guard's neck, holding him in front of his body as a human shield, and pops off a few rounds into the heads of the two guards still remaining upright.

He wrenches the man in his arms to the right, knowing the exact pressure and force needed to throw him down and crack his neck. The guard's eyes are glossy and dead before he even hits the floor.

Harry sends a quick spray of bullets towards the three he'd knocked down as they stumble back to their feet, gun aimed around knee level. He puts them all back on the floor, leaking blood and screaming in agony as he sprints up the staircase towards the hazy, open entrance of Valentine's office. He approaches swiftly but with caution, automatic armed and at the ready should he need to fire, but the only figure standing in the room when he approaches the top of the stairs cuts a familiar figure.

“Eggsy,” he says sharply, not daring to risk relaxing for a single second.

Eggsy turns his head over his shoulder and smiles, bloody, at Harry. There's crimson running from a cut on his lip and from one high on his cheekbone, and a dark bruise is already blooming at his temple. He shuffles slightly to the side and looks down, and it's only then that Harry registers the shivering, crumpled Valentine. Harry steps into the room, and it smells putrid, like condensed smoke and blood and vomit. Very carefully, he steps over the body of Valentine's number two, torso riddled with bullet holes and a familiar, sickening green webbing up through the veins on her arms and neck.

“Did you truly feel the need to poison her _after_ shooting her three times?” Harry asks, bewildered and slightly disapproving. He hands Eggsy the handkerchief he keeps in his pockets, wincing at the ruined silk when Eggsy uses it to wipe the blood from his cheek and around his mouth. 

Eggsy shrugs and jiggles his foot around, neurotoxin coated blade still protruding from the tip of his shoe. “She wouldn't stay down,” he says shortly, eyes darting from Harry to the young woman and then away completely. He swallows. “Had to think fast, didn't I?”

“You killed Gazelle!” Valentine cries from his spot at Eggsy's feet, and gags. He's the source of the awful, tangy scent of bile, his day's meal regurgitated all over the carpet and his t-shirt. “You son of a bitch, you fucking killed my Gazzy!” He presses his hands against the floor, lifting himself up onto shaking arms, and looks up at Eggsy with cold and murderous intent. “I'm going to ruin your fucking life, boy, I'm going to _fucking kill you!_ ”

Eggsy squares his shoulders. “Ain't you ever seen a spy movie, bruv?” he asks, lifting up the white gun that he, too, must have acquired from one of the many fallen guards he left behind him. He perches it on his shoulder as Harry joins him at his side, and offers Valentine a close-mouthed, insincere smile of apology. “We was always gonna win.”

“Fuck you,” Valentine snarls, before Eggsy strikes forward with his foot and drives the poisoned blade into the soft flesh beneath his chin.

The glory of the moment is somewhat ruined by Eggsy's muttered, “Ah, shit,” and the way he hops a bit on his other foot, grabbing onto Harry. “That's fucking rank. I'm stuck.”

“Tilt your toes down,” Harry instructs, holding onto him in order to provide balance. “The body wants to fall forward and if you keep pointing your foot up, you're just going to keep him latched on.”

Eggsy gags a little but manages to extract himself from the mess he's made of Valentine's neck, Oxford gleaming with the slick sheen of blood. He uses the side of the massive computer terminal to shove the blade back into its hollow spot in the sole of his shoe, still clutching at Harry all the while. “Urgh,” he groans, shoulders shimmying in disgust. “Christ, it smells like a fucking shitheap in here.”

Harry digs into his front pocket and extracts the slim hand grenade, holding it up to Eggsy's eyes. “Would you care to do the honours, or shall I?” he muses, turning it from side to side so that the gold reflects and catches in the light.

Eggsy grins at him and snatches the thankfully unarmed grenade out of his hand, and the cool metal of it presses into the warm skin at the back of Harry's neck when Eggsy hauls him in for a kiss that tastes entirely too much of blood for Harry's liking.

He reciprocates, regardless. However, he makes sure to keep his lips sealed tightly together—he adores Eggsy, loves him a horrid amount, but draws the line at ingesting his blood.

He withdraws, rubs a thumb just beneath the angry bruise on the side of Eggsy's head. “Not to put a damper on the moment,” he says, “but there are a rather lot of heavily armed individuals no doubt on their way to seek retribution for your murdering their boss.”

Eggsy's expression goes considering, mouth turning down in an exaggerated line. He scratches at the scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. “Well, it don't sound too good when you put it like that.” He looks up at Harry and smiles, easy and excited. He hands his stolen gun to Harry. “Why don't you get a move on, yeah? I'll set the timer for this,” he shakes the grenade, and Harry suppresses a wince, “and we'll go kick up some shit.”

He's beaming, bloody and bruised and sweating at the temples, bullets impacted in his lapels. Harry goes completely breathless at the sight of him.

“I'm very much in love with you,” he says seriously, pressing a kiss next to the startled furrow that appears in Eggsy's forehead. He turns on his heel and strides from the room, two heavy automatic weapons in his arms, and hurries down the stairs and to the landing. Hardly any time at all passes before he hears the scuffle of Eggsy's quick steps and the faint beep of the grenade's countdown.

Eggsy darts down the stairs and grabs Harry by the lapel, hissing, “You fucking  _ dick _ ,” before hauling him around the corner and shoving him up against the wall, mouth first.

It still tastes too much of copper and iron for Harry's tastes, but he opens his mouth to the insistent press of Eggsy's tongue against his lips. The detonation of the grenade and its resulting explosion shakes the wall behind Harry's back and rains stone fragments from the ceiling down upon them. Eggsy makes no move to release Harry from his embrace, hands dropping instead to clench firmly around Harry's waist, tugging their hips into alignment.

His cock is a hard line that nudges against Harry's thigh through the fabric of their trousers, a lurid temptation. His tongue, running along the ridged roof of Harry's mouth, dipped in and drinking deep in frantic sweeps, tinged with desperation.

Harry wants very badly to wrap his own arms around Eggsy, but he has his hands full toting around two guns and the sound of Merlin's disgruntled, pointed throat clearing grating over his glasses comms.

He pulls away with no small amount of regret, but Eggsy reels him right back in, mouth a biting gape against the tendons in Harry's neck, licking a wet stripe up the skin before latching on and sucking hard. “You fucking wanker,” he growls, muffled into the damp, abused skin. “You don't fuckin' drop that on someone, man, and then  _ walk away _ .”

“I'm sorry,” Harry manages, keeping his voice level even though his heart-rate is ratcheted up and his stomach appears to be creeping upwards towards his throat, giddy. “Would you rather I stayed in the room for the explosion? I hardly see how that would have been a more satisfactory ending to a confession of that sort.”

Eggsy gives a look that is so withered, so reproving, that there's no one he could have learned it from other than Merlin. Harry is inexplicably and overwhelmingly  _ proud _ at the sheer amount of contempt Eggsy layers into the glare he gives. “No,” he says, slow and deliberate. “But you  _ do _ hang about to see if the other bloke feels the same way, you get me?”

“You were holding a grenade,” Harry reminds him flatly. “I prefer myself rather unexploded, thank you.”

“It weren't even armed!” Eggsy cries out. “What the fuck, Harry, I'm trying to tell you I love you, too, you fucking pompous _git._ ”

“ _The two of you are incredibly thick,”_ comes Merlin's resigned sounding input. _“I wish you'd both been blown to pieces and spared me the misery of your idiocy.”_

Harry's lips curl back into a grin, joy flickering up inside of him and seeping into his every nook and cranny. “Oh,” he says blithely, and carefully extracts himself from Eggsy's embrace so that he can hand one of the guns over. “Well, I knew that already, of course.”

Eggsy takes the rifle from him with a stunned, gawking look on his face. “Fuck right off, you did not,” he denies, and kicks Harry in the ankle.

“I'm afraid I did,” Harry corrects, doing his best to sound apologetic above the excited thundering of his own heartbeat. He takes a few steps away and takes a position of corner cover, peering around into the adjacent hall to make sure the coast is clear. He flicks a hand over his shoulder at Eggsy, motioning for him to follow. There's an aggravated sigh and the shuffling click of an automatic weapon being hefted into a ready position. “Darling, you are so wonderfully talented in many regards, but subtlety is not one of them.”

There's an incredulous sounding burst of noise from behind him, and then Eggsy shuffles up and overtakes him as they move quickly into the hall, pressing himself against the wall at the next corner. “You're one to talk,” he bites, clearly stung by Harry's teasing. “Rox totally knows I fucked you in the firing range because when we're there, you always start smirking and shifting on your feet that way that means your arse is sore.”

“ _I loathe the both of you,”_ is Merlin's contribution. _“You're both fired.”_

“Don't be ridiculous,” Harry says, shooting off a handful of rounds at the guards who come trotting towards them. They fall to the ground immediately, blood spraying out against the walls behind them. “You're not allowed to fire me, Merlin. As chain of command and tradition dictates, I'm acting-Arthur now, and your threats are petty nonsense and I will have no part of it.”

“Changed my mind, do you think it's too late to get Percival to fall in bed with me instead?” Eggsy grouses as they press further down the hallway. He's a few paces ahead of Harry when he darts around a corner and lets loose a spray of bullets, followed quickly by the muffled thump of bodies hitting the floor.

“ _While that would no doubt please Roxy very much,”_ Merlin says, tone wry. _“I'm afraid Harry's got a jealous streak in him a mile wide and while you may be joking, I've known him long enough to assume he's plotting violent retribution should Percival so much as look at you strangely now.”_

“You're damn right,” Harry growls, loping forward and hooking a hand around Eggsy's neck so he can mash their faces together in a hard, uncoordinated kiss, all teeth and tongue. Their guns crush into each other's sternums, a firm and lethal reminder of their current task.

Merlin lets out an exasperated growl; another reminder.  _ “Gentlemen, if you don't mind me interrupting, it may interest you to know that you have about four dozen heavily armed guards coming your way, and a hundred or so panicked, scrambling socialites throughout the halls. It's also worth mentioning that the bunker has gone into total lock down. Seems Valentine had a failsafe installed to keep everyone inside in case he didn't manage to initiate his plan at the end of the countdown.” _

Harry distantly registers the vibrations of the floor beneath his feet and the steadily approaching jostle of heavy artillery and frightened shouting. “Bollocks,” he sighs, releasing Eggsy and taking three steps back. He feels grim when he runs a hand through his hair, staring into the heads up display on his glasses at the horde of bodies stampeding their way. “We're fucked.”

“Hey,” Eggsy frowns, and kicks out at Harry's ankle again. He twitches away with a sour look, lest Eggsy get it into his mind that it's a suitable thing for him to begin doing. Harry has delicate ankles and bruises like a peach, if he's being honest, and he'd rather not hobble out of here if he manages to walk out at all. “That ain't the Harry Hart I know, bruv. We'll figure summat out, yeah?”

Harry hums, non-committal, and runs a finger beneath his collar, pulling it away from the stress-induced heat of his skin. Eggsy watches the motion with keen eyes, and something brightens in his face, lifting up his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. “Merlin,” he says, pressing his fingers into the bridge of his glasses. “You was tellin' Harry earlier about them chips, right? And...Valentine was able to pick out that professor specifically for blowing 'im up?”

There's a swift inhale on the other end of the line, followed by the muted tapping of Merlin's fingers against his touch-pad keyboard.  _ “Eggsy, you brilliant little bastard.”  _ Eggsy preens and ducks around the corner to check for any oncoming foes, and lets loose two bullets. A choked off scream, wet and squelching, reaches them from the end of the long corridor.  _ “It may take a few moments, however, so do try to stay alive until then. Harry, please note that was directed at you, because at this point, I'm convinced Eggsy is damn near indestructible.” _

“You say the sweetest things, love,” Eggsy croons, laughing as he leans back against the wall.

“What?” Harry asks flatly, growing irritated at the exchange. There's something vital he's clearly missing, and it's rankling.

“ _As Eggsy has so kindly pointed out,”_ Merlin says, sounding distant and distracted. _“Valentine had clearly worked out a way to pinpoint the various recipients of his implant. No doubt his various minions were gifted with the same security measure. If I can get into his employee database, and match their V-ID numbers to the organisational system he'd used to keep tabs on everyone under his thumb, there's a good chance I'll be able to stop his cronies from doing the two of you, or anyone else, any harm.”_

Harry's indignation at being kept out of the loop simmers away, leaving him to turn his mouth down in consideration. “That's quite brilliant,” he admits, and gives Eggsy an appraising, prideful once over. “Well done, darling,” he says, and lets a curl of lust and a dose of promise linger in the words. Eggsy's eyes dim into something heated and hungry, and it's only when he can feel the young man's breath drifting against his lips that Harry realises their bodies have listed closer once more. “Later,” he implores firmly. Eggsy shakes himself out of the lustful stupor and nods in agreement, twisting away and around the corner with the quiet tap of his shoes on concrete floors.

His voice whispers an all clear over the glasses and into Harry's ear, so he lifts his gun up, peering through the cross-hairs, and trots along in Eggsy's wake. He finds him, flattened and looking annoyed against the wall, and sidles quickly to his side. His gun lays on the ground, discarded. There are a number of heavily vaulted doors throughout the hall, so he tugs on Eggsy's elbow and quickly pulls them both into the relative recesses of one such doorway.

“We've got incoming,” Harry assumes, brushing his finger across the gun until it's hovering in the space above the trigger, not daring to touch the sensitive hinge just yet.

“And fucking _how_ , guv,” Eggsy says, scrubbing a hand through the sweaty tangle of his hair and pushing it away from his forehead. He worries at his lip where it's cut. Harry presses his fingers into the divot of his chin, pulling it from his teeth with a frown—he doesn't want Eggsy reopening the slice and spilling more blood. Eggsy's tongue darts out, more so to wet at his lips than to flick over Harry's fingers, but it's a pleasant side effect. “I'm out of ammo, and there's at least, like. I dunno. Forty? I take twenty, you take twenty?” He groans in frustration, head thumping back against the metal door when the staccato of marching footsteps grows louder, closer. “Any luck with them implants, Merlin?”

“ _Just a few seconds longer,”_ Merlin grits, sounding stressed—and with good reason. _“I'm running the program just once more to make sure I don't accidentally decapitate any major dignitaries. No need to throw the world into further chaos, after all.”_

A shower of bullets bites into the stone wall around their hiding spot, chipping away at the rock and sending dust flying. Eggsy flinches back and towards Harry, breath coming fast through his nose. He's starting to favour his ribs, Harry realises when Eggsy carefully tilts his torso to the side. Eggsy's arm shifts while Harry's peering at his midsection, revealing the compacted metallic coins of flattened bullets, caught in the Kevlar weave of the suit. Harry winces in sympathy—they seem to be of a larger calibre and there's no doubt his ribs are hurting fiercely, likely bruised.

“As quickly as possible would be greatly appreciated,” Harry says, politely as he can manage while leaving the safety of cover and popping off some suppressing fire. His gun clicks after a dozen rounds, grating unpleasantly as it jams. “Shite,” he swears, and tosses the useless gun away and down the hall. White-clad figures begin to filter into the hall from either side, falling into formation and pointing their arsenal of weapons Harry and Eggsy's direction.

“Merlin, we're fucked,” Eggsy grates out, hitting the consonants hard. He's breathing heavily, flushed and scared, and Harry finds he wouldn't be able to tear his eyes away even if he wanted to. He finds it impossible, finds that if he's going to die in a blaze of gunfire, at least he helped to save the world and the last thing he saw was Eggsy. Beautiful, gorgeous, _his_. Eggsy.

“Eggsy,” he murmurs, and draws him near, foreheads slipping together. “I love you.”

Eggsy's eyes scrunch tightly behind the lenses of his glasses and he takes a ragged, wet sounding breath as tears drip quickly from his lower lids. “I love you so much,” he reciprocates, voice pitched low. “Fuck, Harry, all them times I thought about spendin' the rest of my life with you, this weren't what I had in mind.”

“Eggsy,” Harry says again, soft; the name like a prayer and he a supplicant. He doesn't know what else to say—if he's to die, here and now, he wants to die with Eggsy's taste on his tongue, his visage burnt into his retinas, his name falling from his lips. “Eggsy.”

“ _Honestly,”_ comes Merlin's voice, chiding and casual and significantly less strained than it was the last time he spoke. _“You two are so bloody dramatic. Ye of little faith.”_

There's a high pitched whine, not unlike the one they heard in Bors' feed of Professor Arnold's death, but multiplied a dozen times over, and then the sickening pop of bone and flesh splitting apart and splattering against the wall. A fragment of bone, thick enough for Harry to recognize it as a piece of a skull, skids along the floor and lands at their feet, along with a considerable amount of brain matter. Harry leans around the corner as Eggsy gags, just in time to see forty-odd men and women lose their heads in a humorous plume of coloured smoke, detonations nearly synchronized.

It's actually somewhat beautiful, in a macabre sort of way.

“ _That is fucking spectacular!”_ Merlin crows, sounding very genuinely thrilled.

The headless corpses slump to the ground, harmless, an impasse of messy carnage. Eggsy joins Harry in his perching glance into the hall, and lets out a loud, barking laugh. “Merlin, you're a fucking genius!” he shouts, hands reaching out to grab excitedly at Harry's waist.

“ _I'm aware,”_ is the cheeky response, _“Now get your arses back to the plane. We've got to pick up Roxy. I've a roster and full details of all of those complicit in Valentine's plans, and there's no doubt going to be a large number of arrests made in the coming days. Compliance in pre-meditated genocide seems it's to carry a heavy prison sentence. We need to get to the United Nations, and fast, before any guilty parties can bury their involvement.”_

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Harry says, "we'll be there as soon as possible," and then he turns and shoves Eggsy up against the door, cradling his head in one large hand. “However, there is something that needs doing, first.” He cants their hips together, the adrenaline rush making him hard in his trousers, and Eggsy lets out a loud, wanton groan and throws his head back. It collides with the door with a heavy thunk.

Three booming knocks respond from the other side of the door, startling them both. “What the fuck is going on out there!” shrills a female voice. Eggsy reaches up, the angle awkward, and slips down the small, latched prison window, and he and Harry both peer curiously inside.

A bright, angry face pops up, flushed and pretty and very,  _ very _ familiar.

“Princess Tilde,” Harry says, surprised. “Gracious, I had no idea you'd gone missing.”

The pretty blonde blinks at him, her formerly irate expression bleeding into surprised recognition. “Lord Hart?” she asks, and promptly wilts against the door with palpable relief. “Thank fuck. I am so glad to see you.”

Eggsy glances between them, bristling minutely. His mouth tightens with misplaced envy. “You two know each other?” he asks, gesturing from Harry to Tilde and back.

“My father and her grandfather were boyhood friends,” Harry says, tightening his grip on Eggsy as a reassurance. “Her father and I are quite close, as well. Are he and your mother and your brother here, too?”

“I hope so,” she says fervently, anger mottling the delicate arches of her cheeks. “If they agreed to go along with that _crazy asshole's_ plan, I may kill them.”

“ _Rooms 1817 and 0091, respectively,”_ Merlin chimes. Harry relays the information dutifully, and Tilde beams, grateful.

“Let me out, please,” she says, stepping away from the door, chin raised in delicate poise. Eggsy hums and peers at the door's lock pad when Merlin recites the code into his and Harry's ears.

“If I do, will you give me a kiss?” he asks, cheeky and heedless of his enormously possessive lover, still pressed against his front. Harry frowns. “I've always wanted to kiss a princess.”

“If you let me out of here, I'll give you more than just a kiss,” Tilde promises, smiling flirtatiously. Harry's stomach curdles jealously and he tilts Eggsy's smug face away from the window and into his neck, breaking the gaze the two had been holding. “I'm afraid this one is spoken for,” he bites, doing his best to stay collected. Eggsy sniggers against his collar and scrapes his teeth across Harry's neck, teasing. Harry thumbs in the four digit code and the door's locks release with a clunk and a hiss of hydraulics, swinging inwards and nearly causing them both to lose balance. Harry wraps his arms more firmly around Eggsy, hauling him close and keeping them both upright as Tilde pulls the door all the way open and steps, barefoot, into the hall.

“The bastard took my shoes,” she mourns sourly, wriggling her toes against the concrete. “What were those room numbers again?”

Harry recites them a second time, along with their release codes, and she darts forward with a grateful smile and presses a brief, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Eggsy makes an indignant noise, the blasted little hypocrite, so she presses one to his face as well. His expression smooths out, mollified and slightly awed.

Tilde turns and takes a few graceful strides away before pausing and turning back to them. She flicks a hand between the two of them and tilts her head with interest. “Are you two going to fuck, now?” she asks curiously.

Eggsy chokes a little, smothering his shocked giggle, but Harry has long since become accustomed to the blunt, almost forceful way Tilde and her family had of speaking. “Oh, most assuredly,” he says, and hitches Eggsy further into his side.

Her eyebrow twitches up. “Can I watch?”

It's Eggsy's turn to raise his eyebrows with interest.

“Absolutely not,” Harry refuses, tone leaving no room for argument or bargaining. Tilde's mouth purses into a faint pout before she shrugs and turns back, stocking covered feet swishing gently down the hall. “Give your mother and father my regards!” he calls after her.

She wiggles her fingers over her shoulders in acknowledgement and cuts around a corner. Going, going, gone.

Harry promptly bends at the knees and lifts Eggsy up into a sweeping embrace, and carries him over the threshold into Tilde's room. He's careful to keep the door slightly ajar, lest he and Eggsy accidentally trap themselves inside the posh jail cell. He tosses Eggsy onto the bed and immediately crawls on top of him, hands framing that gorgeously squared jaw when he leans in for a kiss.

Eggsy reciprocates immediately, hands deftly unbuttoning Harry's suit jacket in a manner he's perfected over the past seven months, hands slipping up Harry's chest and across his shoulders, pushing the coat down his arms and off. He pulls at the tie, next, using it briefly to haul Harry's mouth harder into his own, and then he's slipping the fabric apart and from around his neck.

It joins the jacket in a pile on the throw rug next to the bed.

He manages to get three of the buttons on Harry's dress shirt undone before the older man leans back on his haunches, straddling Eggsy's hips and putting his mouth out of range. Eggsy whimpers and grabs for him, needy.

“Patience,” Harry chides, slowly slipping the buttons of Eggsy's own coat from their trappings. He rucks up the white dress shirt when he's finished, exposing the hard cut of Eggsy's hips and the defined segment of his lower abdominal muscles to his hungry gaze. The trail of dark blond hair that trickles between Eggsy's navel and the line of his trousers is a beacon, calling Harry down to the heavy lump between his legs. He nudges his way down Eggsy's torso with his nose, hands pressed to his hips so that he can hold down the involuntary upwards thrust he makes when Harry bites at the first button of his fly and undoes it with his teeth.

Eggsy swears and reaches up to scrub both of his hands down his face, clasping them over his mouth and peering down at Harry from above them. He drops his hands down to his chest, making quick work of his own buttons—jacket and dress shirt—and nearly strangles himself in his haste to pull off his tie and shrug out of his clothes.

The garments fall to the floor, compacted bullets tinkling out of the fibres and rolling harmlessly around on the ground. Harry manages to get Eggsy's trousers completely undone and hooks his fingers into the elastic waist of his briefs and tugs them and his pants down, slipping them over the heavy muscle of his thighs and the knobby jut of his knees, pausing only to help him slip off his Oxfords and socks without accidentally deploying the knife in the sole. And then Eggsy is gloriously nude, flushed and shivering beneath him, so Harry crowds atop of him once more for a wet, searching kiss.

Eggsy's hands begin to shove insistently at his own pants, but before he can remove them completely, Harry digs into his back pocket for a thin wallet, meant to house a few bank cards but has instead become home to a condom and a small sachet of lubricant. It's an accessory that Harry has taken to carrying on his person at all times, since that first abbreviated (but still scorching) encounter after the flooding test.

Once the small packet is set beside Eggsy's head and within easy reach, does Harry allow Eggsy's eager hands to strip him of his clothing.

“I'm afraid we'll have to make this fast, my dear,” Harry says, grabbing one of the many plush cushions and motioning for Eggsy to lift his hips. “I dare say we've tested Merlin's patience enough for one day as it is.”

“I've got no problem with that,” Eggsy says, voice rough. He hitches his knees up to his chest, body folding in half easily after all of those years of gymnastics. He's flushed prettily, baring his arse and his cock to Harry without hesitation, and so he's very happily rewarded with a flat, licking stripe up the wrinkling seam of his bollocks, dragging up the line of his fat cock. Eggsy swears and trembles, neck arching, but he stays in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh behind his own knees.

The heat and smell of him is driving Harry completely mad, so he grabs the packet of lube and rips it open with his teeth, some of it dribbling out and onto his fingers, slicking the foil wrapper. It doesn't matter, really, not when that's exactly where he intends for it to go; he lets more slip down, coating his fingers, and then lets the rest drip onto the flushed clench of Eggsy's arsehole until he's slick and shining.

“Fuck, yeah,” Eggsy mumbles from above him, words pressed into the wiry hair of his knee. “Christ, Harry, fucking get your fingers in me. Want your cock so bad, love.”

“Filthy,” Harry growls, and presses a finger in all the way up to the knuckle, crooking it and stroking gently when he finds the spongy gland of Eggsy's prostate. Eggsy lets out the most undignified sounding whine and rolls his hips into the touch, desperate for more, and it goes straight to Harry's cock.

He pulls and pushes his finger, out and then in again, until Eggsy is greedy and asking for more, c'mon Harry, put the other one in already.

He obeys, middle finger slipping in alongside his index, pistoning in and out with brutal efficiency. Eggsy's ability to speak degrades into a jumble of swears and Harry's name, eking out of his throat in a long, thin whine. Harry mouths at Eggsy's cock, drawing the head into his mouth and suckling gently, as if he's all the time in the world. Eggsy releases one of his legs to wind a fist into the thick waves of Harry's hair while he sucks him off. By the time his third finger makes an appearance, Eggsy is completely non-verbal, mouth gaping open and eyes going from clenched tightly shut to staring down at Harry with wonder.

“Fuck!” he shouts, knee jerking down when Harry glides all three of his fingers against his prostate, and begins babbling anew, accent degrading: “Shit, Harry, babe, stop messing about and get inside me, yeah? Wanna feel you, want to come with you in me, want you drippin' out o' me arse. Fuckin' it back inside o' me with your fingers, yeah.”

Harry pulls his fingers out with a horrible, wet noise, and Eggsy whimpers in protest despite his previous begging. His fingers are trembling and too-slick, and he's forced to wipe them on the silk sheets when he goes to tear open the condom packet. He sheaths himself in the latex easily enough, years of experience guiding his hand, and drizzles the last of the lube onto his erection. He works his hand up and down, once, twice, to spread it about, and smears the excess on his palm around Eggsy.

He aligns their bodies, Eggsy's hips and knees cradling him close, hand pulling down at the nape of Harry's neck, and pushes inside in a smooth, long thrust. When he's seated firmly, bollock-deep, he shudders and lays his weight on top of Eggsy, pressing his knees harder into his chest. “Darling,” Harry breathes, nosing into his sweaty hairline. He rolls his hips and catches Eggsy's earlobe in his mouth, pulling gently with his teeth and lips and tongue.

He cups a hand beneath Eggsy's head and fists the other in the pillow, withdrawing as far as he can without slipping out, and drives forward.

It's so good, every time. No matter if it's just his hand on Eggsy's cock, Eggsy's mouth on his, and no matter who's doing the fucking, it's always amazing. Uncoordinated, occasionally, leaving them stuttering and laughing, grinning into each other's skin when a limb slips and jostles out of place, when one of them comes too quickly, or when one of them doesn't manage to come at all for whatever reason. Even the technically bad sex, Harry has discovered, is wonderful when it's Eggsy's smile, Eggsy's gasps, Eggsy's choked apologies that are edged with barely suppressed laughter.

Harry loves him fiercely, unyielding, and it makes every single time  _ spectacular _ .

Now, though, time is not on their side and he wasn't lying when he said they were likely testing Merlin's limits, so Harry fucks Eggsy hard and wild, bodies slapping together noisily and getting sweaty all too quickly from the vigorous thrusts.

“Look at you,” Harry snarls, clenching his fingers into Eggsy's hair and pulling just hard enough, just the way that Eggsy likes. The sound their bodies make when they crash together is obscene and glorious. “My darling, so greedy. You're mine, Eggsy. Your body knows it's mine, doesn't it? It opens up to me so beautifully. And your heart.” He leans down and scrapes his teeth against Eggsy's pectoral, sucks a dark and lurid mark into the skin. He drags a path up to the straining line of his neck and does the same next to the birthmark that stands out, layering his claim atop of it.

His hips stride forward, pressing hard when his cock drives into the scorching heat of Eggsy's body, orgasm already beginning to build at the base of his spine. His thighs tremble. Eggsy lets out a high, breathy noise and starts to fist at his own cock, hand blurring up and down and sucking himself wetly into his own grasp.

“Say you're mine,” Harry demands, but it comes out more plaintive than he intends, more gentle. “Mine, my Eggsy, my darling boy.”

“Yours,” Eggsy gasps on a ragged inhale, clawing at Harry's bicep and shoulder with the hand he isn't wanking with. “I'm fuckin' yours, Harry, _shit, shit bloody—fuck!_ ” His shoulders strain against the bedding, chest mottled and flushed. “I'm gonna fucking come, love,” he pants, and turns his head to the side to mouth at the delicate bone of Harry's wrist. “Come all over you, with your cock in me. You's mine too, yeah? My Harry.” He bites at the skin. “Ain't nobody else for me.”

“No one,” Harry agrees, vicious in his assent. He takes Eggsy's mouth with his own, licking deep and messy, mouths not quite aligning from the force of his thrusts. “Nor for me, darling. Just you, my sweetheart, you lovely thing.” He accentuates each word with a powerful roll of his hips, thriving on the gutted noises that emerge from Eggsy's chest, unbidden. He hitches his own knees forward, just a hair, and it forces Eggsy to bend a bit further back, knees hooking over Harry's shoulders for support.

He seats himself firmly into Eggsy and presses their bodies tightly together, the sweaty, tense bulge of Eggsy's balls a hot presence against the thatch of Harry's pubic hair at the base of his cock. The hand Eggsy had been using to stroke himself becomes very effectively trapped between their stomachs, making him whine and allowing him only to thumb at the dripping head of his own cock, fingers tugging his foreskin down.

Harry undulates, hips rolling, and Eggsy's body goes taut and tense like he's been electrified when he hits the mark every time.

“Oh, shit,” Eggsy chokes, releasing his erection to fist his hands into the pillow beneath his head. “Right there, Harry, _right fucking there,_ don't—don't _stop_ , don't fucking stop, I'm—I'm—FUCK!” he cries, hands spasming and body clenching as a whole when Harry milks his prostate to the point of coming. He spurts, hot and thick and sloppy, up between their stomachs. He lets out little gut-punched moans when Harry starts fucking him again in earnest, teeth grit together. “Harry,” he gasps, staring down at the place where his cock is twitching between them, pearly liquid still beading out. “Fuck, I love you.”

It's the first time Eggsy's said it to him mid-fuck, and it pushes Harry over the edge. He comes, vision whiting out and Eggsy's name a guttural entreaty on his lips. His hips twitch forward, his self-control useless, and he mouths at Eggsy's jaw until he finds his mouth and presses his tongue there, so that he can taste the way his name sounds as it falls from Eggsy's lips in a chant. Harry shivers against him, too sensitive to keep thrusting into Eggsy's body the way he is, but too unwilling to break the close contact despite his softening cock making it difficult to stay inside.

“I love you,” he says into Eggsy's mouth, hips drawing back. He says it again when Eggsy's breath hitches when their bodies separate. _I love you._

Again, when he slips back into Eggsy's arms after getting up to throw away the condom, the air too cool on his skin without the heat of his body to cradle him close.  _ I love you _ .

He says it again— _ I love you— _ when his body lists to the side and Eggsy curls into him automatically, nails scraping at the sparse chest hair above where Harry's heart thrums, wild and frantic and just for Eggsy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quarter to two in the morning and i'm posting this like an idiot who doesn't have to be awake in ten hours lol
> 
> the chapter number went up from three to four, if you've noticed, because i'm saving the epilogue for another chapter since i know myself and i know it's going to get waaaay out of hand haha 
> 
> i'm on tumblr as kirkaut btw i don't know if i've mentioned that here yet


	4. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received an unsettling amount of complaints (predominantly through my personal tumblr inbox, though there were one or two comments here) about the idea behind the original epilogue where Eggsy gained 14 pounds, so I decided to alter the epilogue as it pertains to this story as a whole and post the original into a separate fic so that people can still read it if they desire.

**epilogue.**

 

Over thirteen hundred various dignitaries and heads of state are arrested in the wake of the aborted V-Day Massacre. The United States alone sees ninety percent of its government locked up, leading to a scramble for power and riots the likes of which the country had never before seen. The citizens seem to deem it reason enough to commit mass looting, acts of arson, and to gather lynch mobs against their fellow man. Various right wing extremist groups in the southern states rant and rave about how the decimation of their political system a sign of the imminent apocalypse.

A good portion of the extended Royal Family is incarcerated, too, but Harry finds he's rather gratified when he and Eggsy discover an irate Queen Elizabeth and a more subdued Prince Philip sequestered away within one of the bunker's many holding cells. The Duke of Cambridge and his brother, the very pregnant Duchess and their slumbering toddler are in adjacent cells, eager to be released.

There's a somewhat brusque inquiry as to the well-being of his parents (“Oh, they're doing quite well,” Harry reassures the Queen, patting at her hand where's it's firmly tucked into the crook of his arm. “They're planning on enjoying their summer holiday at our Hampstead estate. Mummy's taken to creating her own jams and jellies, and Father's gained nearly a stone for it.”) but otherwise the encounter is quite pleasant, despite the circumstances.

Eggsy trails along behind them, William and Harry escorting their exhausted grandfather and Kate aiding the Queen on her other side, which leaves Eggsy to look after the youngest prince. He's grinning and cooing at the now awake infant in his arms, beaming every time he gets a shrieking giggle for his efforts.

Since the entire family—minus Charles and Camilla, whose absence Harry doesn't wish to touch with a ten foot pole—is there against their will, they've no choice but to lead them to the waiting jet in the bunker's hangar. Merlin is glowering atop the small flight of stairs up until he realises just who, exactly they're escorting, and then he's all formal bows and thick brogue, taking their surprisingly sparse luggage and stowing it in the plane's belly himself.

Eggsy, Merlin, and himself are all knighted by the Queen in the most informal ceremony of all time, their spare Rainmaker serving in place of a sword. To her credit, when Roxy boards the plane she only freezes for a moment before offering a polite greeting and a curtsy. The Queen is quick to award her the formal title of 'Dame Morton,' but unofficially, and she says this with a conspiratorial wink Roxy's way, she can consider herself a knight as well.

Eggsy's an incorrigible little shit for a fortnight after the fact, insisting everyone at Kingsman refer to him as 'Sir Eggsy.' Harry puts an end to that rather quickly when he takes Eggsy home one evening and spends more than an hour fucking him, rigorous and sweat-soaked, growling 'Sir Eggsy' in his ear when he comes in his arse. After that, Eggsy can't hear his new title without blushing down to his very core, and begs off his earlier insistence, citing that the fun just isn't in it any more. 

Only Harry knows differently, and abuses that knowledge whenever Eggsy needs to be knocked down a peg or two, drifting in and whispering 'Sir Eggsy' against the shell of his ear.

After the disposal of Chester King's body and the arrest of three of their fellow Kingsmen (Caradoc, Hoel, and Tor, all of whom are not only fired and imprisoned, but stripped of their titles as Lords and Earl by order of the Queen, in exchange for a few of Mummy's elderberry jam jars), there's an abbreviated ceremony during which Harry is handed the title of Arthur. He very immediately turns to Eggsy and decrees him Galahad. After all, he reasons into the shocked wide set of Eggsy's eyes, he's more than proved himself worthy of Kingsman.

Roxy is decreed Lancelot within the same breath, and she and Eggsy both shake his hand, formal and polite, and then wrap one another up in fierce, cracking hugs. Merlin wraps an arm around Roxy's shoulders when they separate, the most public overture Harry's seen from him yet, and she beams up at him as she curls into his side. Harry and Eggsy, on the other hand, show no such restraint, much in the same way they haven't done for the entirety of their relationship. Eggsy launches himself at Harry, arms twining firmly around his neck and shoulders, fingers burying themselves deep into his hair as they kiss. Harry gathers him close, one hand pressed to the small of his back and the other between his shoulder blades.

When they pull apart, Harry presses a hard kiss into the skin just before Eggsy's ear, whispering, “There's no one greater I could imagine as my successor, my dear,” and feels the heat of Eggsy's flushed face against his cheek.

One day, not terribly long after Eggsy's officially been inducted into Kingsman, Harry sequesters himself into a dark and quiet corner of the Black Prince, sans glasses and clad in civilian wear but still armed with a Rainmaker should needs arise. He's there for a good twenty minutes before Dean, Eggsy's mum, and Dean's gang arrive, and he slouches in his seat and buries his face in his Ian Fleming novel, doing his best impression of a man who only wishes to be left alone.

Dean Baker and his brutes don't even spare him a first glance, much less a second. Harry sips at his pint of Guinness and awaits Eggsy's arrival. When he graces the doorway of the pub, he looks as delectable as ever in the bespoke suit Harry personally measured and had made. Shoulders back, spine straight, exuding confidence—he's a _vision._

Harry smirks into his drink when Eggsy crosses to the door, deliberately turning locks and bolting them shut. He's perfectly content to sit back and play the part of scared bystander if it means he's allowed the luxury of watching Eggsy in a solo fight.

And Christ, the boy does not disappoint. Harry mourns that he never had the chance to see Eggsy fight his way through Valentine's bunker, that Merlin hoards the transmission recording out of Harry's reach because he “knows what you'll do with it, you sick bastard.” Harry knows that his own fighting style is sharp and fierce, honed into perfection with years of practice and application, but Eggsy...

Eggsy is sheer bloody poetry in motion, body bending and twisting and lithe in ways that seem to defy all previously conceived laws of physics. Not only does he know how to handle himself and use the violent momentum of his aggressors to his defence, but he also knows how to use their bodies as a platform for his next movement without ever telegraphing a thing.

He sucker punches the heavy-set, small and paunchy fellow whom Harry remembers as the one to make that wretched 'rent boy' comment all those months ago, and when he bends in half, winded, Eggsy grabs onto his shoulders and hefts himself into the air, kicking out at the man approaching them from behind and sending him crashing to the ground.

 

Eggsy's feet plant against the very dented railing up against the bar and he pushes himself up and into a back flip, dragging the man down into the ground, hard, even as he lands gracefully on his feet himself. He doesn't even pause before he's lifting one leg and swinging it so forcefully into a kick that his other leg leaves the ground entirely, body twirling in the air. His current target looks so genuinely stunned by the motion that it's no trouble, no trouble at all, for Eggsy to hook an arm around his neck and use his centripetal force to haul the bulk of the body to the pub floor, signet ring pressed into his neck for good measure.

The tall, lanky fellow who'd unloaded his pitifully small pistol at Harry during his own brawl, grits his crooked blood stained teeth and charges towards Eggsy, who quickly rolls away and out of his path before popping back up to his feet and hooking the handle of his umbrella around the man's neck. Harry sends up a prayer to Merlin for his development of the titanium steel alloy that makes up the barrel and handle of the umbrella, because its durability means Eggsy's able to pull back, hard, without risking fracturing the weapon. He drives a knee into the tall man's back and he goes to ground with a whimper.

The sprawl of bodies is impressive, and far neater than Harry was capable of when he did the same: less blood, hardly any broken glass (save for the mug that cracked into Dean's skull with a truly satisfying splinter), and no spilt liquor to speak of.

The bartender pushes the door from the kitchen open and peeks out. He sees Eggsy, standing in the middle of a room full of unconscious bodies, and then he sees Harry, tucked into a corner and raising his pint glass in greeting. He exhales through his nose, slow and loud, and disappears back into the kitchen, door swinging shut behind him. Harry almost frowns; perhaps that amnesia dart he'd dosed him with wasn't quite potent enough.

Michelle gets to her feet, legs wobbling. She'd collapsed back into the booth when the violence had begun, and she's had the same expression of shock on her face the entire time. Eggsy's cocky, happy smirk dims significantly when he catches sight of the look on her face, body language wilting when she comes to a crouch over Dean's unconscious, bleeding body, and brushes a hand over the cuts in his forehead.

“Mum,” Eggsy begins. He doesn't get much further than that, because Michelle balls her hand into a fist, draws back her arm, and punches her husband in the face. There's the crunch of cartilage and thin bone beneath her knuckles as Dean's nose breaks, the man letting out a pitiful groan even though he's knocked out cold. She shakes out her hand, hissing, and presses her knuckles against her mouth as she stands.

“Eggsy,” she breathes, dropping her bruised hand into the other. He takes a wary step forward, but when she reaches for him he ducks his cheek quickly into her palm. “Babe, where'd you learn to do that?”

“I tol'ya,” Eggsy mumbles, and drapes himself around his mother in a tight embrace. Harry knows how desperately he's missed her, and his sister. “I got a proper new gig, mum.”

“What?” she asks, disbelieving even as she reaches up to stroke a hand against the short hairs on the back of his head. Eggsy nestles further into her arms. “And tailors these days go 'round smashing heads in, do they?”

“...yes?” Eggsy tries, giving her a sheepish look as he pulls away. She purses her lips at him, eyebrows doing something that clearly indicates disapproval, and Harry takes that as his cue to make his presence known.

With a gentle clearing of his throat and the 'thwap' of his novel snapping shut, he catches their attention. Michelle starts and turns towards him, bracing herself against Eggsy in a protective stance despite the fact that she now has visceral and visual confirmation that he's more than able of taking care of himself. A faint hint of recognition dances across her face, arms relaxing minutely. Harry can nearly see the cogs of her mind working, attempting to place him. He supposes he does look rather different now, seventeen years older and in a pair of expensive blue jeans and a linen shirt as opposed to his Kingsman issued suit.

When he stands and comes closer, Eggsy's eyes are warm and very nearly blue behind his glasses, meshing with the usual mossy green of them to create a pleasing turquoise colour. He refrains from staring into them too long in favour of extending a hand to Michelle, pulling her knuckles to his lips when she hesitantly reaches back.

“We really must stop meeting under dire circumstances,” he says drily. “And as for your inquiry: some tailors, yes.”

Michelle's hand drops limply to her side when he releases it. “I thought that was you,” she says quietly, something nearly mournful in her tone. She turns around to Eggsy, arms crossed over her stomach. “Got a job at a _tailor's_ , hmm?” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder back towards Harry. “Mind explaining what your dad's old squad member is doin' here, then?”

Eggsy blanches, so Harry takes it upon himself to suggest they move their conversation elsewhere—perhaps somewhere not quite so littered with unconscious bodies. Which is how they wind up in the dreadfully familiar scene of Harry intruding in the Unwin's small apartment, sipping at a glass of water and listening to Michelle rail on about Eggsy putting himself in danger, how could he do this to her, to _Daisy_ , and does he want to end up just like his father?

Then she turns on Harry.

His cheek stings for a full day after, skin sensitive and humming from the force of her slaps. One for dragging Eggsy into peril, and another for falling in love with her son.

It takes time and no small amount of coaxing, but Michelle warms to him, marginally and eventually. By the time the air has started to crisp, summer cooling into autumn, he's a regular Sunday dinner staple at the house Eggsy had procured for his mum and sister, only a few doors down from Harry's own in the mews. Eggsy allegedly lives there as well, but the room he claims as his own is sparse of his belongings, most of which are scattered throughout the rooms of Harry's house.

He never officially moves in, for Harry never actually asks, but it becomes clear enough that it's his home, as well. Framed photographs of vintage cars join the slew of ornithological diagrams and original etchings that Harry has hung up in his hall, and there are more than a few pictures of Michelle and Daisy and JB perched above the mantle of the fireplace in his front room. On Harry's bureau sits a photograph, faintly grainy and from a mobile's camera, of he and Eggsy in the Kingsman shop. Roxy had taken the picture, discreetly, and Merlin had enhanced it and had it printed for them after he spilled coffee down the slacks of Harry's favourite suit.

In the photograph, caught between the confines of a silver frame, Harry stands behind the register, silk pocket squares in hand and an indulgent smile on his face, eyes glinting and warm and head tilted just so, very obviously and disgustingly endeared by whatever Eggsy's saying. Eggsy, for his part, is wearing the suit of Harry's own design—his favourite, he insists—and leaning carelessly across the heavily polished wood of the counter. One hand outstretched and fiddling with the same segment of fabric caught in Harry's grip, their fingers brushing together, but his eyes are fixed firmly on Harry's face and his smile wide.

Harry's never seen himself so lovestruck in all his life. It's one thing to be aware of the depths of your feelings, of the vibrancy of your emotions, and quite another to see it laid out upon your own features.

The two of them squabble, certainly, for no relationship is perfect and one between two spies is bound to see its fair share of arguments. Eggsy allows JB on the bed despite Harry's insistence that the dog belongs no such place. Eggsy is unsettled by the stuffed figure of Mr. Pickle that looms above him when he uses the toilet in the front hall, and they get into a scorching row over his presence. Harry finds himself infuriated when Eggsy takes impulsive chances in the field, diverting from standard protocol because his instincts tell him to. Those protocols are in place for a _reason_ , Harry informs him bitingly, and just because he's fucking Arthur doesn't mean there won't be repercussions for endangering himself and other agents.

(It is, all in all, a rather unfortunate way of expressing his concern, and has the disastrous side effect of Eggsy sleeping at his mother's for a week. Harry's bed is cold, too large, and the way Eggsy's eyes skip over him when they come across each other at HQ is utterly intolerable. He does a fair bit of grovelling for that one. JB's a warm lump at the foot of their bed every night, from then on.)

Their life together is not so simple, nor quite so average, but it is a happy one.

And then comes the day that Eggsy sulks his way into their front room after having come home from a physical performance review on the manor's training grounds and lumps himself onto the sofa beside Harry with a miserable little groan. Harry, who's been doing nothing more than filling out endless amounts of tedious paperwork and watching a Strictly Come Dancing marathon with the volume on low, finds it's no trouble to focus all of his attention on Eggsy when he curls up even tighter against Harry's side.

“What's this?” he asks, lifting an arm about Eggsy's shoulders and scratching at his scalp. Eggsy sighs, soft and weary, and there's a very irrational part of Harry's brain that vows violent retribution towards whoever has caused that sound to exist, though he knows his own rigorous exercise regimen is to blame.

“Knocked seventeen seconds off me time,” he muffles into the skin of Harry's neck, the words caught in the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the hollow of his throat. “Got the blisters and sore muscles to prove it.” He lifts his head only to knock it back into Harry's shoulder, and confides with a sour tone: “I'm knackered.”

Harry feels a low burning fissure of pride in his sternum. The Kingsman agility course is notorious for being the downfall of many of its recruits, but Eggsy had flown (almost quite literally, it seemed at some points, thanks to his dalliance with parkour) through the facility with ease, besting his fellow candidates with a time seven seconds superior to second-best. For him to have been able to remove seventeen seconds from an already existing record is terribly impressive; either he's been practicing in his spare time, or his enrollment as an official agent of Kingsman has left him even more agile, more capable than before. 

Eggsy shifts beside him and lets out a pathetic whimper. "I'm dying," he moans. 

“Darling, you're being dramatic,” Harry soothes, shifting away enough that Eggsy is forced to lift his head and look at him. Harry kisses at the furrow between his brows. “If you were dying, I would be extremely cross with you. As it is, I'm quite content.”

"Easy for some," Eggsy sulks, leaning away and sprawling into the lush corner of the sofa, resting his head against the arm. His eyes flutter and his mouth twists in discomfort before he finds an angle that doesn't strain his sore and tired body. "You ain't just come off a two day stake out and been tossed into the fuckin' pit, yeah."

Now that he's looking for it, Harry sees where exhaustion smudges into Eggsy's features, pulling his brows down and carrying itself in bruising little bags beneath his eyes. He looks slightly pallid, beneath the thin layer of dirt that still clings to him. He must have forgone showers at the manor in favour of coming straight home, Harry surmises, when his eyes alight upon the still visible but fading ring of sweat that dampens Eggsy's shirt collar. He appears to be attempting to become a puddle against the sofa cushion, but the soreness and aches in his limbs won't allow for it, if the continual minute wincing is any indication. 

His chest and shoulders are still tensed despite his lounging, feet planted on the ground. His one arm slips down, fingers dragging on the carpet, and he reaches out for Harry with the other, fingers waggling towards him, beckoning him closer. The flesh about his waist and hips is visible where his shirt has bunched up, the barest hint of jutting hip bones and carving muscle. Harry wishes to sink in his fingers there, pull Eggsy to him.

So he does.

He drags himself closer to Eggsy, rucking the shirt up past his navel, and mouths at the warm, soft skin that stretches over the firm, well-defined muscles of his abdomen. He presses his nose in, deeper, harder, and can feel the strength of Eggsy's core when he tenses.

“You smell like sweat,” he murmurs, dragging his nose up the line of dark hair between Eggsy's trackies and his navel. “Mud. And...gunpowder?”

Eggsy reaches out, haltingly, and places his hands upon Harry's shoulders, smoothing his fingers up until they can tangle in his hair. “Me and Rox were shootin' clay discs in the yard before the review,” he says, still eyeing Harry tiredly. From this angle, the sharp lines of his jaw seem more prominent, more square, and Harry wants nothing more than to press himself into the soft underside of his chin, to kiss and lick along the edge and leave his mark upon Eggsy's skin.

“A bath, perhaps?” he suggests, rising to his feet in one smooth motion, keeping his fingers against Eggsy's hips, fingers slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs to tease lower, against the thin and silky skin covering his pelvis. Eggsy inhales through his nose, lust warring with the exhaustion in his eyes.

“You joinin' in?” he asks.

“In a fashion,” Harry agrees, and begins to lead them both towards the stairs, pausing only to grab the remote and turn off the telly. He keeps himself only a step behind Eggsy as they ascend, refusing to relinquish his grip and skimming kisses against the cotton still across his shoulders whenever their stride allows for it, mouthing at the places he knows where birthmarks scatter over Eggsy's skin.

He guides Eggsy into their bedroom, towards the master bath, stopping at the linen cupboard to grab one of their newer sets of towels and the bottle of lavender bubble bath Eggsy loves but uses sparingly, having baulked at the price when he'd accompanied Harry to the speciality shop for bath salts and candles and the gentle face wash Harry requires for his morning routine.

Once the door to the bathroom is shut behind them, Harry draws the bath, twisting the taps and testing the temperature until it's overly warm without being scalding and without running the risk of growing cool and tepid too soon. He adds a generous squirt of the lather beneath the running water, and as the bubbles froth and grow, he turns back to Eggsy.

The Adidas track pants he wears come down easily enough, the rough-slick sounding slip of polyester being shucked. Harry slips the pants down, over his hips and over his thighs—which tremble lightly, as if to hold up Eggsy's weight is a nearly insurmountable task despite the heavy, solid muscle of them. Gymnasts thighs, all power and prominent musculature, only softening towards the top, where his legs curve round to form the equally toned bum behind him. His calves are hairy, still tight and sculpted, and Harry lays kisses by his knees when he steps out of his trousers.

His briefs follow the same torturous, delectable path and join the puddle of fabric on the tiled floor.

Harry's taken his time in accomplishing both of these tasks, so by the time Eggsy is completely starkers, the bath is full and threatening to overflow with bubbles. He twists off the taps, the room strangely and yawningly silent without the rush of water.

“Ain't you coming in?” Eggsy asks, gesturing to Harry's still clothed body. He's only in a pair of cotton pyjama pants and a tee of Eggsy's that swam on the younger man but settled comfortably across the width of Harry's shoulders. It smells of him, of _them_ , and it's Harry's favourite item of clothing for lounging about in the house.

“Not tonight,” he denies finally, but steers Eggsy towards the bath nonetheless. “I'm afraid I'd taken a shower not more than an hour before you arrived home. That doesn't mean I won't enjoy assisting in your relaxation, my dear.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes but steps into the tub carefully, gripping onto Harry's hand until he's settled in with his back against the slope of the giant claw foot tub. Beside the large basin, Harry pulls up the solid wooden box that houses their laundry hamper, just the right height that he can sit upon it and lean over the lip of the tub with no undue strain on his back. He rubs a hand over the slick expanse of Eggsy's shoulders as the younger man pushes the bubbles into the water, making the mountains disappear into a thin layer of foam that's no less fragrant.

Harry presses on his back until Eggsy tilts forward, then cups a hand into the water and lifts it to wet the hairs on Eggsy's head. He continues this motion until his head is suitably wet, and then squirts a dollop of his own shampoo onto Eggsy's head and begins massaging at his scalp with firm fingers, until the soap begins to lather.

Eggsy hums, pushing his head into Harry's touch as the dirt slowly scrubs away.

“Seventeen seconds,” Harry muses into the calm of the bathroom. “That's quite the accomplishment, and no mean feat, either. I assume you've put the newest bout of proposals to shame, my dear. However I am grateful it wasn't any more, lest you beat the long standing record and send my reputation into tatters. I would have to prove myself again, and I daresay I don't want to embarrass you quite so publicly."

“What,” Eggsy asks, eyebrows raising even though his eyes remain shut against the drip of shampoo down his forehead, “and you beatin' me is just a guarantee, is it? What makes you think I wouldn't kick your arse, huh?”

“Yes,” Harry tells him plainly. “Because I am very petty and very competitive, and a terribly prideful man, who's run that course dozens of times and has it memorised and would do his best to defeat you. I'm happy to indulge such vain tendencies, until I'm too brittle and old and forced to quietly resign myself to incontinence." Eggsy snorts into the bubbles and slips down against the porcelain, shoulders disappearing beneath the water. "Don't worry," Harry soothes tritely, teasing, "If you manage to beat me, I will still love you quite madly afterwards. I'm far too besotted to let you slip away, however wounded my pride may be. If that doesn't show you how much I care for you, then I'm not sure what will.”

Eggsy squints at him through thinly slit eyes, smiling. “I can think of a few other ways meself, Haz.”

“Don't call me that,” Harry rebuffs absently, automatically, the same way he's done since Eggsy first hauled out the nickname a few months back. He'd called Merlin 'Mezzy' once, and never again. Harry wishes Merlin would tell him what he said to Eggsy to get him to stop so that he could grant himself the same favour.

Eggsy exhales a laugh through his nose. “Still,” he persists. "If it's love you're wantin' to show me, babe, I've got a couple ideas, yeah?"

“Am I not already doing a sufficient job in showing you?” Harry wonders, cupping more water between his palms and letting it run the soap out of Eggsy's hair. “Grab the loofah, would you, darling? Thank you.” He drizzles body wash onto the rough sponge and scrubs it over the line of Eggsy's shoulders, moving in small circles across his skin. He dips his hand into the water when he follows the line of Eggsy's spine down, making sure to cover the entire expanse of his back.

Eggsy seems to be nearly asleep by the time he's finished, soothed into a stupor. “Lift your arm,” Harry instructs, fingers curling around his bicep. Eggsy does as he's instructed and Harry cleans him there as well, and then the other arm when he's finished. Thorough, gentle, and with no small amount of affection for the sleepy young man in his care. He leans in and presses a kiss to Eggsy's damp temple, pressing the sponge into his chest. “Do you think perhaps you could attend to the rest of yourself?” he murmurs, trailing two fingers down Eggsy's spine and into the cleft of his arse, making his intention clear. He gets a sharp inhale for his trouble, Eggsy's bleary eyes blinking open. “I'm going to tidy up the bedroom.”

“Yeah, alright,” Eggsy says, and the sponge disappears into the water, down his chest and stomach and headed towards his groin. Harry excuses himself to the bedroom before he can do something foolish like climb fully clothed into the tub and displace water all over the floor.

While he's in their room, he picks up the small piles of dirty laundry and tosses them into the hamper in the corner. Then he gathers up the empty water glasses at their bedside tables, along with the small bowl out of which Eggsy had been eating scrambled eggs that morning, and takes them quickly to the kitchen so that they can be laid in the sink.

There comes the sound of water running through the pipes, of dirty water being drained and fresh water pouring in. He thinks of Eggsy, wet and cleaning himself upstairs, and takes the stairs two at a time.

He does a cursory remaking of the bedsheets, pulling them back into place and fluffing the pillows, and quickly pulls the bottle of lubricant from the drawer next to his side of the bed.

He enters the bathroom once he's finished, unfolding the towel from where he'd set it upon the toilet, and holds it up width-wise. “Out you get,” he says, nodding to Eggsy's supine form.

With a groan and what certainly seems to be a large amount of effort, Eggsy pulls the stopper and hauls himself up and out of the tub, standing on the bath mat and waiting for Harry to encompass him in the towel and his embrace. Harry wraps the towel about his shoulders and rubs gently, drying up the moisture that runs, beading, down his neck and chest. Eggsy nudges him away, not unkindly, and lifts a corner to scrub out the excess water in his hair, revealing the relaxed state of his body. He must have been horribly tensed and pained earlier, when he was laying about on the sofa, because the muscles don't seem quite so prominent now that they've been soothed by the heat of the bath, the abs above his navel only slightly less well defined for it. Harry drops carefully to his knees against the large bathmat, and nuzzles back into the crux of his hips, pressing kisses into the clean, flushed skin.

He digs his thumbs into the prominent vee of Eggsy's hip bones, drawing him nearer. He feels the prick below stir, already half-hard and wanting.

“Harry,” Eggsy says, tone scolding but smiling through it. “Christ, your _knees_ , get the fuck off the floor, man.”

Loathe as he is to leave his newly adored spot on Eggsy's stomach (just above where the thatch of dark gold curls begins), he knows that his knees will, in fact, be screaming in the morning should he remain on the hard tile any longer, so he rises slowly to his feet with Eggsy's assistance, hands knotted together. Keeping them clasped, he draws Eggsy out of the steamy room and into the bedroom until they're beside the bed. He pushes the damp towel off, lets it tumble to a pile on the floor. Eggsy stands bare before him, damp and goose-pimpling all along his arms and chest, a defiant lift of his jaw, not self-conscious about his own nudity. And for good reason, Harry admires, scanning his figure from head to toe and back again.

Harry draws him in, lifting up as he does so, and Eggsy rises onto the tip of his toes accordingly, until his feet just barely skim the ground. Harry carries him the last remaining inches to the bed and lays him down, following Eggsy's body with his own. Eggsy's knees bend and his thighs splay open, cradling Harry's pyjama covered hips against his own nude set.

“There,” Harry begins, gathering Eggsy's hands into his own and pressing them down into the mattress above his head, knuckles brushing against the headboard. “You see? You needn't strain yourself any further.” He tightens his grip minutely, and whispers an egregious, "I'll take such good care of you, my boy."

“Shut up, man,” Eggsy mutters, blushing slightly in the apples of his cheeks and more violently at the tips of his ears.

“I'll do no such thing,” Harry says, and leans down to skim kisses against the heated flush of his cheeks. He moves his mouth up, presses three kisses across Eggsy's forehead—in the centre, to the left, and to the right, and then drags his lips down the bridge of his nose until he can kiss the pointed tip of it. “What sort of a man would I be,” he asks, sotto voce, into the divot of Eggsy's chin. When he speaks next, it's into the bow of his upper lip, the groove of his philtrum. “If I were remiss in telling you, as often as I can, just how very much I love you?” He kisses at the corner of Eggsy's mouth. “That I want you?” The other corner. “Or how I think you're terribly misguided in allowing yourself to be shackled to a dirty old man like myself?” Eggsy frowns and squeezes his knees around Harry's hips in protest. “Not worry, darling,” Harry reassures, and dips in for a soft, wet kiss. “I'm far too selfish to let you go if you aren't trying to leave.”

“What if I never want to leave, eh?” Eggsy's hands flex beneath his grip when he strains upwards for another kiss.

“I'm sure I'll find something to do with you,” Harry promises, and then tucks his face beneath Eggsy's chin, kissing and licking at his neck. He laves his attention there, in the wide set of Eggsy's jaw, sucking a dark bruise against the sharp hinge, another in the centre of his throat atop the birthmark there. When he starts to move lower, tongue dragging across the valley of his clavicle, he releases his grip on Eggsy's hands in favour of smoothing them down his sides to curl over the toned oblique muscles in his sides. He feels the dips and rises of Eggsy's ribs beneath the expanse of his hands, shifting with every breath.

Eggsy leaves his hands above his head, fisted into the sheets. Leaves himself spread, open for the taking.

“Very good,” Harry praises him in whisper, a susurrus against his skin, and kisses at the rosy peak of his nipple before dragging his teeth across it. Eggsy lets out a whine and arches his chest further into Harry's mouth, breathing raggedly when he runs the flat of his tongue across the sensitive bud. He pays the same attention to the other side, until Eggsy's chest is heaving with the quickness of his breaths.

Harry runs his nose down, between his pectorals and over the ridge of his upper abdominal muscles, and comes to a stop at the place in Eggsy's belly where he always, inevitably, leaves his mark and laves his attention. “Eggsy,” he says, pressing the word into the body below him. “You lovely creature.” He bites into the skin, catching flesh between teeth and worrying at it, drawing it into his mouth and sucking the blood to the surface. Eggsy squirms a bit at the sensation, turning his face away so that his cheek is pressed against the mattress, nosing into the soft flesh of his underarm. Harry relinquishes his grasp on Eggsy's hip to reach up and tilt his chin back towards his chest so that their eyes meet. “None of that,” he admonishes, swiping a thumb against the centre of Eggsy's bottom lip, down his chin.

Eggsy's jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, but he keeps his gaze on Harry.

Satisfied, Harry returns his attention to the dip and give of Eggsy's navel, digging his fingers into his middle, into his sides, relishing at the way his fingers sink into pale flesh. He takes time to suck precise, dark circles in the places the skin is softest beneath his lips, lavishing attention there so that Eggsy can make no mistake on just how adored he is, how much Harry thrills at having him beneath him, in this bed, in his life.

His thighs tremble against Harry's forearms, pressed there to keep him splayed open, and his cock is hard and jutting up, flushed and terribly enticing. The head of it bumps into the underside of Harry's chin as he's pulling an especially lurid love bite to the surface in the space above Eggsy's belly-button. He pulls back when he's satisfied with the mouth shaped bruise, and ducks his head only a scant few inches to draw Eggsy into his mouth.

Clean skin, pre-come, a hint of soap, and the sound of Eggsy's bitten off curse. These are a few of Harry's favourite things.

Eggsy's hands finally leave their position above his head to twine fingers gently through Harry's wavy hair, nails scraping into his scalp. His pelvis is giving unconscious little jumps upward with every sucking push and pull of Harry's mouth on his prick, small moans being gut-punched out of him every so often.

Harry pulls back and lets the cock fall from his lips and back against Eggsy's stomach, spit-slicked and shining, and focuses his attention on the wrinkling crease of his bollocks, mouthing at them and drawing them onto his tongue. Eggsy circles a hand around himself—not stroking or squeezing, but simply holding, as if to abate some dire need for touch there.

Harry swipes his tongue along the back of Eggsy's scrotum just to hear the strangled yelp of his own name.

“Shit,” Eggsy breathes, and his fingers tighten against the strands between them.

“Turn over, darling,” Harry implores, moving back just enough that Eggsy can do just that, legs tangling briefly at the ankles before he sets them a metre apart, baring his arse to Harry's hungry gaze.

He sinks his fingers into the generous mound of Eggsy's arse, made slightly more round with muscles made taut by the training Kingsman has given him. Harry spreads his cheeks apart with his thumbs, fingers skidding over the soft and pale flesh that bunches together with the parting.

“This is one of my favourite places on your body,” Harry admits, massaging his fingers in and watching the skin redden and flush beneath his touch. “Other than your mouth, of course, which is second only to your eyes.”

“My eyes?” Eggsy repeats, voice muffled where his head is buried into the bend of his elbow. “Christ, you fucking romantic tit. No love for my cock, then?”

“Did I not just have my mouth on you?” Harry points out, and then leans in to lick a broad stripe up the crease, dragging his tongue over his hole. Eggsy inhales sharply, tensing and relaxing all at once so that his spine rolls. When he's finished, he says, “My fourth favourite, then, but by a very small margin, if you must be so insolent.”

“Me?!” Eggsy props himself up on his elbows and twists the best he can, glaring at Harry over the slump of his shoulder. “You're one to talk, you tetchy wanker.”

“Enough of that,” Harry tells him, and dips back down to kiss messily at Eggsy's arse, tongue prodding at his hole. Eggsy grunts and collapses once more, though he does so reluctantly, muttering under his breath all the while. If he's still able for form halfway coherent sentences, Harry must not be doing his job properly. He presses his face further in, slips his tongue past the tight ring of muscle, and licks in where the taste of Eggsy is its most potent. Beneath the tang of soap and the slight hint of sweat, there's an essence there that Harry adores, all musky flesh and something nearly sweet.

Eggsy, for all that he's a mouthy little shit, tends to go very, very silent when Harry eats out his arse, letting loose only little sighs and hitching moans that lose themselves to the covers. His hips twitch down into the mattress to grant himself some friction, but he doesn't thrust far enough that he dislodges Harry's mouth, and gives himself over to the act in a manner he doesn't quite manage in other areas of the bedroom.

It's the total submission, Harry believes, that allows Eggsy to give himself over to silence. He cherishes the trust laid in him to be allowed to take control of Eggsy in this way, to lay him out and keep him vulnerable and press into him so intimately. Harry feels as though he's never truly enjoyed this act before seeing how Eggsy shivers underneath his ministrations, how his spine goes liquid at the prod of Harry's tongue inside him, the gentle gasps when a finger delves in as well.

For now, Harry is quite content to prise him apart with his thumbs, murmuring praises and endearments into the warm crevice between his buttocks, in between his probing licks. Eggsy sighs and shakes, and it's only when he says Harry's name, almost inaudibly, does he relent. He releases his hold on Eggsy's bum and raises up onto his knees so that he can reach over to the bottle of lubricant on the bedside table.

He drizzles some into the crack between his index finger and middle finger when they're pressed together, careful not to spill any when he moves his hand back to where his spit is cooling and tacky between Eggsy's thighs. He's loose, relaxed, and takes the two easily, fingers clenching into the pillow with pleasure. “Harry,” he groans, and rocks back into the touch, and despite how much Harry relishes the silence given when he bares his arse to Harry's mouth, he always finds that he's missed the sound of Eggsy's voice terribly once he begins to speak anew. “Yeah, love, like that.”

Harry crooks his fingers, nudges into the gland of his prostate, and Eggsy clenches down around him and swears. “Ain't gonna last long if you do that again, Haz,” he warns, voice rough.

“Don't call me that,” Harry says, and slides a third finger into where Eggsy is slick and pliant. His fingers push in and pull out, wrist twisting for sensation as he does, and keeps the pace slow and tantalising. He bends down and bites at Eggsy's sides, putting the marks of his teeth in places he had not managed earlier, hunches over to flick his tongue across where his fingers stretch a ring of muscle, bearing the synthetic taste of lubricant if only for the way it makes Eggsy shudder and groan, begging for more.

“Please,” Eggsy grits, driving his hips back. Harry follow the movement, keeping his fingers at a distance, drawing out the pleasure. “Harry, fuck, _please_ , babe, just fuck me, yeah? Get in me, love, need you—need your cock in me, wanna feel you come, fuck. _Fuck_ , please, I'm gonna—soon.”

“As you wish,” Harry agrees, withdrawing from his body, and shoves his pyjama pants down his hips, rucks up his shirt beneath his arms so that he can wet his cock. It's odd, being almost fully clothed while Eggsy is naked as the day before him, but there's something utterly thrilling about it as well; the way that bits of Eggsy are still hidden to him, how their flesh doesn't fully meet even as Harry slides inside the hot clutch of him.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Eggsy swears, reaching back to grope at Harry's arse, tangling his fingers in the bit of cotton he can reach, pulling the waist of the pyjama pants tightly against the backs of Harry's thighs. “Fuck, 'm not gonna last—gonna last very long.”

“Nor I,” Harry pants, snapping his hips forward and thrusting into Eggsy. “Which is incredibly frustrating, as I've been trying my best to do this slowly, darling, to try and show you just how much I love you.”

“I fuckin' know that already,” Eggsy laughs, letting go of Harry's pants, and tilts himself to the side just a bit so that he can hook his elbow around Harry’s neck and draw him in for a messy, wet kiss. “Shit, you tell me every fucking day, Harry, I know you love me. So just...just fuck me already, yeah?” He shivers all over when Harry drives in with another long thrust, head of his cock skimming against his prostate if the way his eyes flutter shut is any indication. “I'm gonna come soon either way.”

“Yes,” Harry growls, splaying a hand across the expanse of Eggsy's throat and holding him there. He begins to fuck him in earnest, hips slapping noisily with every shove inside, knees digging into the mattress to give himself leverage. “Yes, Eggsy, that's it my darling boy—so tight, my love, so hot around me. I want you to come, sweetheart, I want you to touch yourself and come while I'm inside you.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy groans, slipping his arm from around Harry's shoulders and wedging it between his body and the mattress, lifting up his hips enough that he can work himself furiously, canting back into Harry's cock at the same time. “Shit, yeah.”

Harry drags his hand down the sweaty line of Eggsy's throat, over his chest, and cups at the mound of his pelvis where his pubic hair curls, digging his fingers in and holding tightly. He feels Eggsy's knuckles skim the back of his hand with every stroke on his cock.  “I love you like this,” he grunts harshly into Eggsy's ear, biting at the lobe between the words. “So hot and wet beneath me, letting me take care of you, letting me fuck you—knowing you find such comfort here, with me, that you can leave yourself open in this bed, in our home.”

“Our home,” Eggsy breathes, and it sounds like a revelation. The tendons in his neck stand out and cord when he throws his head back, choking on a strangled shout of Harry's name when he comes.

Harry digs in his fingers, soft skin denting beneath the clench of them, and scrapes his teeth against Eggsy's shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times more, and comes with a gasping inhale.

Later, when Eggsy's tucked comfortably against his side and away from the wet spot, he rubs a hand across Harry's collarbone, one side to the other, and asks, “Harry?”

He hums in response, come-dumb and drowsy.

Eggsy nestles against the apex of his underarm and says, “You ever think about what might've happened if you hadn't of kissed me after the first test?”

Harry has, in fact, wondered over such a thing. If he hadn't bent to Merlin's request to help oversee, would he have ever had the time to take Eggsy aside and kiss him and come between his thighs? He suspects he knows how it all would have played out: a fond, if distant, relationship between the two of them, Harry still on the case of Lancelot's death. Eggsy passing test after test with flying colours except, perhaps, when it came to shooting JB. Harry can't imagine the swell of bitter disappointment he would feel at the loss of such potential, but there'd hardly be time to dwell, since in the same day he would have been doomed to die in the sweltering Kentucky heat.

Perhaps Valentine would have succeeded, and all would have been for naught.

“It doesn't bear thinking about,” he says, turning Eggsy in his arms until he looms above him, fingers brushing back his sweat soaked fringe and trailing down the side of his face, over the straight edge of his jaw. “But I'm sure we would have found our way to one another eventually.”

“You think?” Eggsy asks, looping his arms around Harry's neck and drawing him down. He sounds curious but mostly hopeful, like he wishes Harry would believe that the two of them would have still ended up in the same bed, lazily discussing what to do for Sunday dinner.

“My dear,” Harry informs, saccharine but serious, and leans in to press a soft kiss against the pout of Eggsy's mouth. “How could I have stayed away? I suspect I was always meant to fall in love with you.”

“You soppy shit,” Eggsy beams, fond and happy.

Harry kisses him again and bears him down into the mattress, hands clasping him close.

He digs his fingers in, and vows never to let go.

 

 

 

**the end.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [soft](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482077) by [kirkaut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkaut/pseuds/kirkaut)




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